Injustice: A Written History of the Forty-Third President
by LLXIII
Summary: At the dawn of the twenty-first century, Lex Luthor had achieved everything. Almost. All that remained was to become President, to rule over the people he loved and who owed their lives to him, and while he was at it, destroy Superman and all his friends. But there were some who resisted.
1. Hope

_GCN's Evening Report_ with Mike Engel, December 7, 1998:

"…First off tonight, we begin with fresh news from Washington, as insiders say the Oversight Committee will not reroute any funding to what they call the Gotham City problem, this in opposition to hard lobbying on the part of government and private sector voices. The move, though widely anticipated, comes as a major setback to the Administration, particularly Vice President Gore, whose legacy is now perhaps tied to the President's more than ever before. What the suspected 'Declaration of No Man's Land' will mean for the Vice President, after this…"

* * *

Lex.

Years ago.

Years ago he was young. Like they all were. He was happy and vibrant. And the city was his. Imagine it. To come from nothing. And then to have everything.

Lex came from Suicide Slum. The worst Metropolis had to offer and still offers to those too weak, unskilled, or enfeebled for anything higher. Oh, the Luthor family was rich in antiquity. But that was a very long time ago. It was young Alexander's father and mother who, in a tenement too small to even squat, lived the dotage of their ancestor's failure.

He determined to get it back.

He found his mother crying one night. He had come home after dark to the empty tenement, dank paneled walls and worn-flat carpeting the color of pea soup. She was sitting in the Davenport, sagging leather and her ancient taffeta flower dress rumpled around her. One fat arm supporting one fat head, the only flawless thing about her was the perm, brown and stuck in place for these long years. There she sat, kind of sunken into herself, batwings for arms and round hands covering her face. She was a full body crier in a family of repressors and as she cried she shook, or sort of hobbled with each breath.

He ducked back behind the wall and pressed up against it. His whole body wound up. He felt his legs, his thighs, tighten and it was minutes before he realized he needed to breathe. His shoulders went up. He daren't move: she might hear the slightest thing and then thunder over and wonder why this nobody persisted in hearing her shame.

He took a shallow long breath. His eyes pulsed and he swore he felt his heart beating out of his chest. Still he heard the cries. Kind of a low wail, really, and he just stood there pressed against the wall waiting. Listening. Waiting for father to come home perhaps and invariably beat them both. Old father. Wallace's descendant. A human waste. Not fit for a landfill.

Lex waited until his breathing normalized. And until he found himself staring at the worn out carpeting, listening to her. Listening to himself. The beats of his heart and, he imagined, the electrochemical surge in his brain. He listened until he couldn't anymore. Until he looked at his own hands. His feet. His legs. All of himself. Until he couldn't take it anymore. Her emotions. His own. Their...situation.

He fled to the front door. Bounded out of there like a rocket. Down the stairs. Onto the street. Five blocks down to the newsboys. He ran fast. And he did not stop.

In five minutes, the time it took to flee their tenement and get down the street to where the newsboys usually were this time of night, outside Carmazzi's flipping cards for gullible rubes, Luthor would own them. And then. The city. And then.

And then.

Everything.

* * *

Lois.

He called her name and still she waited.

Well. Waiting was really such an ugly word. What was the counterpoint? Something not quite as passive as waiting yet not as charged as rebelling. She'd been doing that pretty well her whole life. Well, her whole life so far. She reached up behind her: the headboard was a bookcase and stuck almost in the middle between a copy of _Capital_ and _Brave New World_ was a thesaurus. Dollar ninety-nine at the Book Loft, yellowed and worn. She plucked it out from its place and looked for—

"Waited. Tarried?" she said. Made a face. No. "Hung on. Hmm."

"Lois!"

"In a minute!" Her voice cracked as she yelled. God. Mom's got Dad, Dad's got Mom but really who's got who? She didn't have an answer. Maybe there was a word for that.

Lois Lane was nineteen and commuting to Stonybrook. She was inquisitive. Acquisitive. The world her oyster, and this sort of imperious attitude governing her every move. She liked to tell Lucy and the rest of the Sunday Mimosa group that she came by it honestly. The military. That life. She respected it. How could she not. It was Dad's whole life and Mom loved him enough to support it. But it was not her thing. No. Lois preferred something a good deal more open. She found it in journalism.

So there she sat, or laid in this kind of Roman recumbence on her bed. Writing out a letter in her comp book to the editor of the paper, _Nimbus_. And what the hell kind of name was _Nimbus_ anyway, who was Collie trying to impress?

Under hair the colour of red wine she had this permanent little smirk. Writing fast with this really killer ballpoint, writing so fast she watched her words jumped around the ruling, some scrimshaw EKG for penmanship. Finally she was done. She held the note in both hands.

"Dear Collin," she read and made her voice that low register of disappointment and judgment with which she liked to fool herself. "I was disappointed to read Lisa's latest excuse of an opinion column on objective reporting on the Board of Trustees meetings. Surely such an opinion, specious, and hinging on the supposition that there's objectivity left in journalism, pretends to be the remnant of Hearst's age. Then, we all could suppose ourselves above the fray. Outside Roosevelt's beloved arena and able to judge it all dispassionately. But we should know better. You can't assess a situation unless you're inside it. Heisenberg was onto something. To a large extent objectivity is both an excuse and a crutch for those who lack the constitution for hard analysis. Or for inconvenient truths. On this Earth every act is a political act. Our function as journalists, even at this institution for apparently higher learning, is to report on those acts. It means doing so from the trenches. So be it. I no longer want to work for a group of distant effetes who cannot see the value in the elbow work, the grime and grist under which true reporting lies. So I'm resigning."

She breathed. Looked at the note and then set it back on the duvet. Stared at it another minute and then looked up.

He was in the doorway, in his Dress Blues. The Major. Dad. Sam. Dad. Leaning on the jamb, arms folded, and the creases of his old face in a smile.

He said, "Good."

Then he was gone.

She watched the doorway a moment longer. Cracked a smile.

It was the first time he ever complimented her. The first job she ever quit.

And the last.

* * *

Clark.

Years ago Clark was young. He still was young. But he felt in his heart of hearts that he was old. Old and somehow…distanced from his adopted world. Even by the lofty exchange rate at which he judged his biology to be ahead of these humans—

No.

These people—

No.

His people.

The projection from the capsule called him their son. Her son. He remembered it all too well. So well despite the fact that it was, what, ten years gone by now. What a decade. Packed with stories and encounters so wild he doubted even Jor-El could contemplate them. He thought about that a lot lately. Here at the turn of the millennium human society seemed intent on having a self-effacing moment, judging itself, not too harshly however, on its achievements. He liked to imagine he knew better. For all the damage such a line of thinking could have on someone with his powers, he imagined he viewed this society, this human planet, as better than perhaps what it was.

We think we're so small, in the end. In the eyes of the universe.

We're nothing. And they sit here arguing over annoyances on a blue planet they're unconsciously killing.

Father.

Who does that remind you of?

He thought about that a lot too. Reaching out through the ether to speak to a man dead for what Clark had figured to be centuries.

He had taken it upon himself to investigate the capsule that brought him here. In it he found information in his native language about the society he'd left behind. Or been allowed to escape. Coded information from a hundred thousand worlds, including Krypton itself, hundreds of thousands of years of cultural, political and military history.

In the throes of curiosity, if there was such a thing, he interfaced with the capsule once. This was ages ago. After the tornado. Before Metropolis. He interfaced and learned it all.

He didn't feel any smarter for the exercise. The archive poured into his brain the total sum of its knowledge and analysis. The exercise probably had made him the smartest man on the planet. But It certainly had little application, he felt, to parade up and down Fifth Avenue with the knowledge, for instance, of Thanagar's opulent Fourth Interregnum and attendant Social War. Or the sundering of Kandor, Krypton's own, by a supercomputer in humanoid form. Or even the stories, apocryphal even in the Archive memory, of the destruction of the old universe and the splitting of its remnant halves into two worlds: one light, a genesis of life, and one apocalyptic dark.

It was years after this that he faced those worlds in person. That he became what you might suppose he is today.

A Man of Tomorrow. A Man of Steel.

Superman.

He said the name out loud, and it floated on the wind, and was gone. He breathed.

And focused.

He was a hundred miles above Metropolis. Floating, not moving except for the imperceptible solar breeze he supposed he felt in space.

Down the coast, a hundred and thirty-one miles from Metropolis, the Clocktower in Gotham City was ringing in the new year. 2000, celebrating perseverance, that city being readmitted to the Union after a year in the wild. Elsewhere, they were shooting off fireworks in Centennial Park: a public party for all, food and fellowship at the dawn of a millennial tomorrow. He looked down and saw Lois in the park. He smiled and watched. Bundled in a North Face, a tape recorder in one hand, a full tumbler of whisky in the other, getting reactions from the mayor, the occasionally interesting Virgil Brinkman. Jimmy next to her in some smart grey trenchcoat, snapping photos on a vintage Kodak the size of a car.

He smiled. He wasn't accustomed to this level of reflection. Certainly it was more relaxed than he had been in a long time. He imagined that it was what levity felt like. Peace, in spite of everything.

And he thought of Jor-El again.

Father.

His father, surely the greatest of his kind, sent him to this planet knowing only so much about its customs and its people. But he took a chance.

Jor-El believed in them.

Clark breathed.

For his own part he did not know anymore.

Because down there in the maelstrom of life was—

Squinting, he saw Luthor, a flute of champagne in one hand and Brinkman shaking the other. Smiling his Luthor smile. Laughing his Luthor laugh. He remembered.

Only in October of the last year, three months and yet an eternity, the man had announced from his Quonset in the middle of ravaged Gotham that he was running for President.

Time had seemed to stop when Clark heard it.

He had known in that instant what the outcome was going to be. Luthor accomplishes most of what he sets his mind to, Father. The only failure for him is that I'm still alive.

So here he was. Superman. A savior of humanity, as far removed from humanity as he guessed he could be. A savior.

And not sure they needed—

Or wanted—

Saving anymore.

Superman, he thought, meant something. The symbol on his chest, and the morals in his heart, meant something. It was all some people had.

But.

He'll win, Father. Won't he.

Why have I become so attached to these people? Why do I think of them in this way. I was raised as one of them.

But.

I feel—

He couldn't shake the question. Not in the face of abject possibility. Because Superman knew the truth. The reality of it. He knew there were other worlds. He'd seen them. Been to them on a thousand adventures with the League and others. Those fantastic people with fantastic powers that allowed them to see such things and such places. Other planets, other universes, other Metropolises. Eventually, other versions of himself. He never paid the idea much attention until now.

He imagined on one of those worlds that he and Luthor, for all their ups and downs, might have been friends. He imagined that Luthor put that prodigious mind to use curing cancer, or taking humanity to the next step in their evolution. Clark hoped for a great many things.

But he lived on this world. In this reality. And it was in this reality that he and Luthor were enemies.

He wished it was otherwise.

He started to lower himself to the city. In a moment he heard the crowds drunkenly bleating out Auld Lang Syne.

He smiled. Father. My people.

And he thought of Lois. And Jimmy. And Perry. And Bruce. And Lois.

And Lex.

January the first. It was going to be a long year.

He tried hard to amuse himself with the fact that he didn't need time travel to see what was going to happen. He just knew. Because he knew Luthor.

But still he held hope for the people in his city. His country.

His planet.

He touched a hand to his chest and didn't catch himself doing it until it was too late. And he remembered the very first conversation he ever had with Lois. How could he forget.

"On my world," he'd said, and his voice was a hollow shell. "It stands for hope."

* * *

On December 8 1998, then-President Clinton went on national television to address some of the issues surrounding Urban Decay in The Heart of Our Great Nation, infrastructure and its attendant funding needs, and the concomitant problems of rising population and crime rates. If you weren't paying attention it was supposed to be a fairly routine speech, as speeches go of course, perfectly bland, perfunctory, and meaningless. A reach out. A band-aid, a salve. All the synonyms. Except those living in certain areas of the East Coast knew pretty well what it was about.

Gotham. The City of Night.

You had New York, and you had Boston, and you had Metropolis, and if you wanted to be brave you'd count Blüdhaven in there. And you had Gotham.

Gotham. Whose inhabitants laugh at New Yorkers who talk about their tough town. Whose people sneer at Metropolitans bitching about their vegan soy lattes and instead prefer, one _Gazette_ poll found, black coffee instead. But that's Gotham for you. Deceptively simply, but comfortable. It was a state of mind as much as a city. Sure it had heart, and character: a dark gothic charm the intrepid, the insane, or the seen-it-alls seemed to accept. But more, it was alive. In a way Metropolis maybe wasn't. Sunlight and artifice, you know, aren't all there are to a life. Sometimes the shadows make life interesting. Sometimes you make them home. And generations had. The Waynes were the first, and made their fortune trading fur with the French in the ancestral tidewaters. Later others came. Opportunity was something to be seized as well as created. Elliots, Cobblepots, Galavans. And more. Immigrants setting up neighborhoods and protective families. Falcones and Rileys and Skeevers. All institutions. As much a part of the city as the buildings they created.

Gotham grew.

And then, one day, it all fell over.

A contagion that devastated the city. Another outbreak that picked up where the first left off—a legacy of death. Repeated impositions of martial law and human rights abuses too manifest to even contemplate let alone prosecute. Survivors cannibalising each other in Knights Stadium as they waited for disaster relief that never came. Geriatrics refusing to leave their homes even as their children lay dying. The talking heads and Late Night couldn't resist. They talked about morals and ethics and carnal forbearance and how that had all gone out the window the day the city decided to entrust its fate to a bogeyman in a Halloween suit.

And then the earthquake. The nail in the coffin. If the freaks and the Bat-Man and the variably effective police force hadn't signed the city's death warrant, the earthquake certainly did. Fires burned for days. Humanitarian aid promised and lied about was swiftly dropped altogether. More martial law. Millions dead. It all happened so fast and went on for so long that the talking heads didn't know what to say after a while.

Luthor sat in Montevideo, and later still Metropolis, watching it all. Watching and imagining perhaps that the quake, or the plague, or some bloodthirsty Girl Scout had killed the Batman and that it would free up the alien for the brunt of Luthor's attention. He imagined he could face the alien squarely now. Man and Superman, after all, doing battle for the ages in this very building.

His tower.

Tallest building in the world. He kept it that way. So he could look down. On them.

Imagine one day looking up. And someone looking down their nose at you.

Well.

That. That was the very last straw.

He leaned back in his chair. Ahead of him on the desk made from a juvenile redwood was his PowerBook G3, a gift from Steve, and a tumbler full of Glenmorangie. He cocked his head. On the PowerBook, the livestream went on, Cat Grant and Glen Woodburn sniping each other over what Clinton could possibly have to talk about, maybe Yemen they said, maybe Dolly the sheep, maybe nothing. Luthor tuned it out, and in a separate window brought up his email. He fired through a quick succession of notes from subordinates, sending back one-word replies to the ones that weren't worth it, and half-sentences to the ones that pertained to the actual running of the company.

Finally, Woodburn shut up, and Grant looked at the camera. Luthor imagined she was looking at him. And he at her. Right at her.

"That's gonna do it for the panel, we now go to the Oval Office, and President Clinton."

The image changed, and there he was. Drawn pale face, leant forward, hands clasped together on the desk in front of him. That characteristic look on his face. Lips pursed in. Eyes ever so narrow.

Luthor scowled.

Clinton only seemed to wait a moment. An eternity, Luthor imagined, as the man pondered whether or not he could continue. Then he spoke.

"My fellow Americans. Tonight I'd like to address some of the problems that have arisen in recent months, pertaining to one of our greatest cities. Gotham City, in beautiful southern New Jersey, is a strong city. A resilient city. One built on hard truths, hard facts, and the steadfast perseverance of the men and women who settled it over two hundred years ago. It's also at the center of a huge humanitarian crisis right now. Over the past few months you've heard me talk here, and to the Congress, about the need to save this city from the plagues and the destruction that's been visited upon it. I don't believe I need to recount the events that led to Gotham's current state, but I do need to reiterate the dire need its citizens face. They're hungry, they're ill. They're dying. Without proper federal aid, there's little we can do to save Gotham. I had hoped, and I had urged the members of Congress to do so as well, that a groundswell of support—goodwill campaigns, grassroots activism, fundraising, calling your representatives, everything that makes our country and our system of government work—would help save Gotham from the waves of negative public opinion. But tonight, I'm sad to report that all of those efforts, noble though they were, have not achieved what we hoped they would.

"That said, it is my job now to report to you, the American people, that earlier this evening the Congress has overridden my veto and passed Bill Nine-One-Nine-Three-Nine, Authorisation for Immediate Cessation of Federal Intervention in Gotham City, to take effect within fourteen days. It's my sad duty to report that this bill is designed to remove both military presence within the city—the lifting of martial law—and humanitarian aid as well. Until such a time as the government can come to a consensus on what aid to give to Gotham City, I'm afraid this is our only recourse.

"But this Bill also stipulates immediate establishment of FEMA relief camps in six locations around the periphery of Gotham City, in order to aid basic humanitarian needs, proper medical care, and out-processing and placement services to affected individuals. To the citizens of Gotham, let me be clear: Your federal government is here for you. Within the next fourteen days I encourage you to take all necessary steps, if you are able, to leave Gotham while you can, and to please do so in an orderly manner.

"In my first inaugural address I said there was nothing wrong with America that could not be cured by what was right with America. I still believe that. I still believe in all of us, and all of you, in order to affect positive change in the world, especially at this uncertain time. I know there are dark days ahead. I promise you we will face them together. And I want to reiterate something else I said all those years ago on the National Mall. Something that has stayed with me ever since: we have changed the guard. And now, each in our own way and with God's help, we must answer the call.

"Thank you, and God bless you all."

Luthor shut the PowerBook. He leaned back in his chair, a dark shadow upon black leather silhouetted against the endless night beyond: a floor to ceiling glass window for a wall. The cityscape gleaming with a trillion winking lights in the gloom.

He came back to himself and looked straight ahead. Mercy, standing there in a charcoal wool coat. Staring at him. Waiting for orders like a loyal dog.

His face twisted a bit. A stone scowl.

"Get me George."

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	2. Mankind's Natural State

_The Daily Planet_ , December 26 1998: "Turning Away," by Lois Lane:

"'I thought, for the longest time, that I was stuck here. I guess I felt like maybe Gotham was what I deserved. So here I was, and then one day here comes Ebola, Ebola right? In America. On my block, in my building. I watched the apartments on either side of mine whittle down one by one, every day an ambulance came and took someone else. Still I stayed. And then the earthquake hit, made this giant crack right up our street, swallowed up the trolley like a joke. I looked at Michaela and I said that's it. We packed and the car still worked and we could get out enough, and I said, that's that. We're with her parents here in Whitehorse. It's really a great little suburb. But sometimes, Miss Lane, I've got to tell you, I think about those people we left behind. I wonder if they made it..."

* * *

What disturbed him the most was how quiet it was.

Normal cities, intact cities, with traffic and nightlife and the background detritus of modern life, had rhythm all their own. But not this one. Gotham in particular, he well knew, was a character all its own. Whole city blocks lit up with native celebrations, local flair—all the excitement that makes life worth living.

Now, Gotham had none of it.

An earthquake saw to that. A city of twenty million, reduced to ashes in an afternoon. A massive exodus followed, during which the living fled the city. Chanced it elsewhere. He reflected dryly on his own realisation that these people, survivors at least, had escaped their doomed world for a better one.

Who does that remind you of, Father?

He was two dimensions over when it happened. When he got back he—

He tried to help.

Bruce told him to leave.

He frowned. And lied to himself: from up here it doesn't look bad. It's quiet.

There were lights once. Twenty million heartbeats. And now there were so very few. Even in Metropolis, he could feel the hum of millions of souls, civilization happening all around him. Not here. Gotham was gone. In it's place was a No Man's Land. And after the outbreaks and the cataclysm, only the valiant, the venal, and the insane remained in this place. Where once pinpricks of light that were distant skyscrapers bathed the city in electric bliss, there was nothing. No blinking red GRN radio towers. No soft sodium filaments up and down Grand Avenue. Not the slow churn of the UrbaRail through Newton.

They're all dead, Father.

He breathed and braced himself. You've seen dead things before, Clark.

Still.

All those people.

He focused. A boy and his Airedale, in a camp in Grant Park. Lex's camp. The boy was eating, and sharing bits of his meatloaf with the Airedale. Clark forced a smile. They were making do.

He began his descent, October air crisp and cool against his face. He allowed himself to feel it. After all, important to feel like them. Important to be among them, and to feel as they feel. Right Father?

He didn't know.

He wondered again when it was he started feeling this way. And remembering his early days this way. So separated from mankind. Not just separated either. But. Above.

It was hard to deny the rush his enhanced senses gave him.

The first time he remembered using them, he was—

Running.

Across the field. Unbearable summer sun, he soaks it up without even knowing it. Soft dirt under him, between the rows, crisp yellow wheat stalks raking against his jeans. He legs burn. His arms burn. His chest burns. Hot sweat rolls down his back and simmers under a crisp white shirt.

He keeps pushing himself, and faster he runs. Until, almost, the smooth earth fades into bland pastels fading around him. He doesn't know where he is, maybe Kansas still, maybe Nebraska, somewhere flat and warm. He's comfortable in the warmth in the sun. It's there that he feels most powerful. But he doesn't know it yet. How can he.

He smiles, and it turns into a laugh. He keeps going. Eventually the field ends in a broad terminus of a fallow field, abandoned and forsaken. He stops. And breathes, and every breath lights up every inch of him, he's pulling hot air into lungs that feel like they're gonna blow at any moment. He smiles again. Then he gets an idea.

He jumps.

He jumps, and for a long minute forgets he's even in the air. He laughs like the man he wants to be, a deep throaty wail, he's so pleased at himself and at this new trick of his, this new power, that he forgets himself.

He lands in the bed of Whitney's dad's Custom Deluxe, and he breathes some more, deep and greedy. And he jumps again. And again.

He jumps all the way home. Short bursts. But he keeps pushing himself, keeps pushing. He figures if he jumps half a mile every time, five ought to do the trick. Maybe more. Maybe—

He stops jumping when he hears his name, Ma calling dinner.

Clark opened his eyes.

Luthor had come into this No Man's Land swearing to end it. Doing his usual Luthor business: throw money at a problem, and use his Lex Charm, to make it all go away.

Clark wondered if that would work. He landed slowly, gingerly, at the gates of Camp Lex, spread as it was among Grant Park. He took it in for a half of a moment. Floodlights on the perimeter, no fences, little Isuzus and haulers and small-scale machinery dotting the camp. Rows and rows of Quonset huts from the entrance on Grand up to the river. At the base of the statue of Grant, Clark saw it. Luthor's personal hut. More heavily guarded, less worked over than the rest. A museum quality to it.

Not covered with lead.

"Hm."

He straightened himself. Took a deep breath.

He closed his eyes and then opened them again. On demand.

Father.

He landed right in front of Luthor's Quonset.

The guard was watching him land.

Superman suppressed a smile when he saw the guard sling his AR back over one shoulder and lean against the jamb.

"You know," he said. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing that."

"That makes two of us," Superman said.

The guard laughed.

"I'd like to speak to him if it's alright?"

The guard made a face. "I gotta call it in."

"Of course."

The guard was talking into his shoulder. "It's him. He's here to see Mister L." Silence. The guard looked back at him and forced a smile. His shoulder squawked back: "He can come in."

"Aight," the guard said and stepped aside. "It was nice to see you again, sir."

"You too," Superman said.

The door, plain enough, especially for Luthor, cracked and opened. Mercy standing there in a grey wool coat, hair back and tight in a fresh braid that went down her back.

He passed her without a word.

Luthor was standing there, behind a folding table with a PowerBook on it. The rest was a spartan appointment, a pop-up wardrobe with the flap open and showing seventeen versions of the same black suit within, a King bed with dark purple sheets perfectly laid upon it, a Tiffany lamp on another fold-up table for a nightstand. An Eames chair by the nightstand with a copy of Capital, rumpled and worn, in the cradle. A stack of newspapers as high as his desk, _The Financial Times_ at the top, some photo of Luthor on the cover. Subtle.

Superman took it all in. Quite the contradictions. He wondered in the next millisecond if he allowed anyone other than Mercy in here. Wondered if any of the hundreds of Remainers LexCorp had hired had seen their new boss's trappings. If they ever could. If they ever would. If he ever cared to show them. If he—

"Hello," he said.

Luthor smiled. "It's nice to see you, Superman. Mercy, please leave us."

Superman cocked his head and watched her go. He waited until he could see she was gone, walking across the camp and not merely spying outside the door like a child. Finally he looked back at Luthor.

"I came to talk," Superman said.

"Does Batman know you're here?"

"Does he know you're here?"

Luthor chuckled and shook his head. He stepped out from behind the desk. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up twice, no tie for a change, and the top button of his shirt undone. Business casual. He slung a blazer on.

"What can I do for you?"

"I saw your announcement yesterday," Superman said. "Congratulations, Candidate Luthor."

Luthor bowed. Imperceptible and forced. "Thank you."

"Now," Superman crossed his arms, broad blue over the red and yellow diamond on his chest. "Tell me what you're really up to."

They locked eyes for a moment.

Luthor broke first: "Let's take a walk."

So they did. They walked slowly, out of the hut, beyond the guards who merely tipped their ball caps at both men. They skirted the camps, and Superman again saw the boy and his Airedale on a cot by the MASH unit. The dog was asleep in the boy's lap, and when the boy saw Superman he froze, eyes wide, and tracked him walking the whole distance. Superman waved, and the boy waved back.

Once they were out of the boy's sight, he looked up at the dark and ruined cityscape, what was once Wall Street and the Solomon Wayne Courthouse up the block, grey stone and cement in its heyday now broken in half, very nearly perfectly, across the centre of a shattered terracotta roof.

Superman reached out and felt the weight of the dead city around him. The asphalt beneath his feet. The air around them, fine and cool for October, and when he squinted he saw a snowstorm in Cleveland, coming here to this sad abattoir. The night air howled through the desolation.

"Have you ever considered," Luthor said. "That this is mankind's natural state?"

Superman looked at him.

"No."

"No?"

"Not at all."

"Hm."

Superman frowned and beheld the camp as they walked. He supposed he imagined more people out and about within the camps. As if there were things to do, things to spend money on. So he had to keep reminding himself there was none of that here. No shops or diners, no income. No culture. Just scraps of the world that was. He sighed and looked up, felt the night breeze wash across his face. Not a natural state, Father, no. But. An interruption. Something not meant to last.

He hoped.

What few people remained outside huddled around oil-drum fires for warmth, and did not acknowledge either of them.

"Well," Luthor said. "I have."

"You," Superman said. "Have always had that view."

Luthor looked at him. "Not always."

"You have and you know it," Superman said.

They stopped. They were at the northern edge of Camp Lex. The river and concrete barriers below them, clean stone angles for shorelines on either side.

"Look at this," Luthor said. "The earthquake came and every building for three blocks fell into the river. Blocked it for months. My crews cleaned it all out in a week. A man dreams a millennium into the future but lives in this squalor. I imagine Krypton was better, although any society that created you surely had problems of its own. Tell me something. Children died here, and where are your friends? Where is the Amazon's storied compassion? Where is the Lantern and his magic ring? He could fly in here and fix this tomorrow. Your Martian could make everyone forget. Batman would live forever supplicant to such a solution. Or did he stick to his pride and tell you to stay out."

Superman said nothing. Made a stern, affected face and crossed his arms. "Enough."

"The guilt trip not enough for you?"

He said, "I ran into Corben last week. Trying to sneak in here on one of your tech shipments. Can you imagine the damage he'd do?"

Luthor scowled. Lips stretched tight over his teeth. Those green eyes boring into Superman's soul. Trying to. He said, "If he'd made it here, we both know what would've happened."

"Do we."

"Our mutual friend would have ripped him apart and made an example of the remains. And you know it. So what's really bothering you, you fatuous egotist?"

"I'm trying to help you, Lex, people are watching—"

"I'm aware of the political situation, Superman, and I'm afraid your fears are unfounded: the city will reopen on New Year's Eve as projected. All will be welcome back as heroes of the city that persevered. Or don't you want a humanitarian victory here?"

"Coming here was illegal," Superman said.

"Oh, and here you are—"

"You could go to jail."

"I'm not beholden to an immoral law-"

"You're not beholden to any law!"

"You're goddamn right I'm not!"

Superman breathed.

Luthor was looking at the far side of the river. "I'm running on an assumption, however specious, that you can appreciate what I'm doing here. You know what it is to see a society evaporate before your eyes. Don't you imagine you could have saved some of it? If you had the power?"

Superman waited. Slowly he caught himself shaking his head. "I know you too well, Lex. Maybe that's the problem."

Luthor started pacing up and down the concrete berm. He said, "Everyone 'knows.' They think so highly of themselves, don't they?" His eyes narrowed and he cracked a smile. "Don't you see?"

"Lex."

Luthor turned back to the river. "You came here to ask me to stop. I won't, and you know that." He turned back. Locked his dead eyes on Superman's. "Don't you."

"I have hope," Superman said, "that the best man wins."

"Even me?"

"Yes," Superman said. "So prove me wrong, Lex. Earn this. Make your life worth something."

* * *

Lois.

She was doing about three things at once. As usual. Drinking, and flipping through newspapers, and listening. The channels cycled variably between CNN, NewsHour, Lehrer, or GCN, Engel trying to be political, Ryder and his natural bombast. It was fading in and out in her attentions: every few minutes one of them would say something useful. But for the most part it was talking heads, Lex's favourite phrase, trying to find relevance.

So there she was. Sitting not in the davenport but on the floor in front of it, legs curled to one side, a bulbous glass of Merlot next to her, a stack of the days papers, the Planet atop them, on the other side. She grabbed the remote and stopped. On WLEX, Woodburn and Vale, and Cat Grant moderating, were talking about a lot of things.

Gotham. And Metropolis. And Superman. No Man's Land. The Batman, if, so they said, he even existed.

And Lex.

She took a long drink when Vale said his name.

It was only yesterday he announced.

She remembered. That day, and too many more.

She remembered the Sea Queen, all those years ago. Luthor, grotesque in those days, although at least he still had hair, so at least there was that. Luthor lending her a dress for the gala and leering in close at her. All laudits and slick smiles through cigar fog. When they first met, and every day since. Standing there in his dinner jacket, that golden goose of a smile, surface value and nothing underneath

She shot up in an instant. Pulled the drawer open on one of the coffee tables and slid out the album in one smooth motion. Flipped it open, and the sheets were heavy and dry between her fingers. The first page, her resignation from Nimbus. The next, the article in the _Planet_ : "Terror at Sea." Not her idea but it worked. The photo was Luthor's mugshot.

She smiled. Even the memory of it enthused her, all these years later.

Having hired terrorists, ex-Sandinistas or something, and set them loose on the Sea Queen as a test of Superman, who was still so new in those days, Luthor found himself instead in the lock-up. Public endangerment was the official offense, but that only scratched the surface. Illegal weapons supplies to foreign terrorists—terrorists operating in American borders at all, quite a novelty in those days.

Oh Luthor posted bail the next morning and no investigation ever came of it. But that didn't stop her. She drew her fingers slowly over the yellowed newsprint, and remembered. Luthor's arrest was the start of something special. Something she wasn't sure she had words for. To this day.

Superman's career. Luthor's everlasting rage.

And her growth.

Beyond just being…Lois.

He saved her life.

She closed the album fast, and slid it back into the drawer. Slunk down into the davenport and ran her hands up and down her lap. Breathed. Looked around, and kept back the tears.

Clark. You saved me.

Ever since that night. She'd had the same dream.

She's falling. She's always falling.

And he's always catching her.

He—

She looked back at the television. Woodburn was railing. "Why are we even talking about this, Luthor's not going to win."

Vale: "Glenn, come on—"

Woodburn: "No, listen—"

"Glenn—"

"We have a two party system for a reason," he said and slapped his hand on the desk, chortled and kept going. "Our entire political system is built around it, it's a tradition and you can't just upend that, and here comes Lex Luthor thinking he's cock of the walk, I mean come on, guys."

"Glenn—"

"Doesn't this strike the two of you as just a little ridiculous, I mean, what does he have to prove? What does he think he's doing?"

Grant waved him off: "He's always come across as a man of the people, Glenn."

"That's an oversimplification," Woodburn said. "He—"

"Look," Grant said, "we all know he had a blue collar life, he grew up in the slums, and now he runs, what, Vicki, help me out here, one of the most-valued, most resource-rich companies on the planet? Here, report from the _Financial Times_ last week, LexCorp stock outperforms Apple for the last three quarters, and that's after they brought, uh, Steve Jobs back and their stock went through the roof, so what does that tell you?"

"Fine," Woodburn said. "We're about public trust—"

"Alright," Vale said. "We can respect the man's progress, but I'm not about to worship him just because we all love success stories."

"Something else," Woodburn said, "When was the last time he had to face anti-trust lawsuits, I mean, LexCorp has fingers in, what, aerospace—"

"That's how he started," Vale said.

"Sure," Woodburn said. "Oil, he used to have fields in Venezuela before relations soured, uh, I think we have a certain ex-President to thank for that, he's got telecom, WLEX, GNN, he runs the _Metro-Ledger_ and the _Daily Star_."

"Glenn," Grant said. "There you go again, a controlling interest is not 'running the paper.'"

"But just look at how it looks, Cat, come on. He's everywhere."

"Okay," she said. "And now he wants to be in the White House, I don't see a problem here. He's taking what he thinks is the next step."

"Okay, next steps, then," Woodburn offered up. "If we're gonna start thinking seriously about a President Luthor, we also need to start thinking about things like divestment, uh, the emoluments clause—if he gets elected, where does the business stop and the man start?—"

It was the front door opening that brought her back, that slow and easy creak of the wood, and she knew in an instant. She could feel him. She didn't have any superpowers but she knew him. When he entered a room. Whenever he was close to you…there weren't words for it really. You just felt bigger. Like he was focusing all his energy on you. Specifically.

Even for cool, cruel Lois Lane, whose parents had been there for her in form but never function, whose independence as a result colored just about every facet of her life, it meant the world. Her world.

She looked up at him and smiled, that weariest of smiles, but getting better. Getting better.

She grabbed the remote and muted the television and stood, one single flourished move, practiced.

Clark cocked his head like he could feel it. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said. Wiped a wisp of hair from her face. "Just stuck on this."

He wrapped his arms around her, warm and expansive, and she rested her head against his broad chest, feeling his heart beat. She touched one hand to her lips.

"He's going to do it, isn't he?" she said.

"Yeah."

He looked away, but kept her in his arms. She couldn't see it—part of the reason he kept the embrace—but he was frowning. He believed it too. And so here at the outset, even he was at war with himself over this.

Father.

"Clark," she said. Pulled away and looked at him. "What's wrong?"

He waited. Breathed. "I've been thinking of my father lately."

He's just a man. Why does he vex me so.

"Jor-El," he said gently.

"Oh."

Her eyes narrowed, eyes darted quickly. Looking for something to say. In all the years they'd been together she knew well enough that Jonathan was more central to Clark's sense of self than his biological father was. Certainly he was closer to Jonathan—he had raised Clark after all. Saved him from that field in Osage, nowhere near anywhere, probably saved his life. And certainly Jor-El also had some centrality in his life: not for nothing was he in a place of honor in his Arctic fortress. But to think of Jor-El now, out of the blue—

"Do you think it has something to do with Lex?"

"Yeah," he said. "I fear this is all throwing me for a loop. Making me doubt myself."

"We have to stop him. Superman could…"

"Lois, you know I can't."

She looked away. "Yeah."

"We have to keep doing our jobs, and hope the system works."

She smiled and laid her head against his chest. Felt his heartbeat again, slow and strong and wonderful. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

He looked ahead. In the distance the LexTower loomed over them.

* * *

 _ **Continued…**_


	3. Long Term Change

"An Evening With Pete Ross, 44th President of the United States," Live from the Jerome Shuster Center for the Performing Arts, 23 May 2004:

"Well, you raise a fine point, Paul, but look-what was and still is most important to me is the effective running of our government. It has a job to do same as anyone else and I think we maybe lost sight of that. Myself included. We were so wrapped up, I think in the mere idea that Mister Luthor who we all knew for years and trusted and who really made Metropolis what it is, I think, we got so wrapped up in that that we forgot kind of the basics. We wanted to think we could be as influential as him. I know I did. You know, being in public service you always wonder if Enough is Enough. If you're really working toward something. I guess I felt like I could do that, be that person. Working with him. I guess that a pretty optimistic view of things, but look, you all know me well enough to know that it's what I believe. Wholeheartedly. Do I think Lex Luthor made mistakes in office? Yeah. But our jobs now are to learn and make sure those mistakes don't happen anymore and, without sounding too cruel, Paul, learn to move on."

* * *

Time passed.

The new year came.

Gotham celebrated its reentrance to the Union on December 31, 1999 at the strike of midnight, despite a murder and an arrest: the city's usual bogeyman stopped the Joker only too late after he had killed he police commissioner's wife. The Batman witnessed it, and so did Superman.

From a distance.

Five hundred miles up as usual.

He hovered there and did not move. Felt himself breathe, slow and even, and watched the air curl away from him, crystallise, and shatter. He looked straight ahead, the sun at parallax in the distance. He squinted and saw within the cosmic birth pangs of helium fusion. Atoms smashing together over and over again in agony. Creation itself.

He looked back at the Earth.

And descended.

In a moment he beheld Metropolis, and his home. As Clark Kent, he had a storied career. Beyond his career at the _Daily Planet_ , Kent was author of two Pulitzer-winners, _The Janus Contract_ and _Under a Yellow Sun_. He served on the Metropolitan Literary Arts Council, and was active with the Tri-State Free Press, a nonprofit that advocated for freelancers and large papers alike on Capitol Hill. It was Kent who had lobbied in the Senate for the _Daily Planet_ and the _Daily Star_ to allow reporters in the No Man's Land. It didn't work but in a world where the always meek Clark Kent could stand his ground at Congress, the very place where the vapid and inoffensive Bruce Wayne failed to plead his case, it was a step in the right direction. And yet it was not always this way.

Before, there was just him. Just Clark. His day job, and then Superman at night. After his debut all those years ago saving the proto-shuttle Constitution—in the process saving the life of one Lois Lane—he still kept a tight schedule. Work and work, where the latter equalled his time and energy as Superman and the former meant his energy as Clark Kent. To him they were indistinguishable, merely parts of a whole. Certainly he thought of himself as Clark. He supposed his upbringing had the most to do with this state of mind. And supposed further that if he had grown up on Krypton—

Well.

That was a big if.

So.

Here he was.

Landing on his balcony. Thirty-eight storeys up, to an apartment too big for the two of them. Workaholics, dedicated journalists, Clark and Lois, living in this apartment. Three bedrooms, only one of which was their master suite, the other two offices for each. He had moved here after the advance from The Janus Contract arrived, and allowed him to move up an income bracket or three. Then other things happened, with a speed that surprised even him when he thought about it all too long. Criminals from a pocket dimension, criminals so abhorrent Superman had had to break his one valued rule and killed their leader. Exile, during which time he fled to deep space and learned of threats greater than imagined—threats, as well as the courageous beings who faced them. He met the warrior Draaga, and the tyrant Mongul. He learned of the War World and came to understand that the universe was a dark and uncaring place—that people like Mongul could and would conquer and enslave billions and that most other people would keep their heads down while such a thing happened and not get involved. And he came to understand that he could not allow such a thing to happen. Oh, he stopped Mongul, certainly. But he retained the lesson: conquerors could not be countenanced, and would never stop. But someone had to.

So he decided it would be him.

He decided he could do more for this cold, complacent lot than maybe they knew.

That was really the start. He almost remembered it fondly. Things seem so much simpler, after all, when they're in the rearview mirror. Hindsight gives us a bizarre sense of knowing, knowing against all odds, and the hubristic elation that comes with having survived whatever you happened to be remembering. But it was not always so. He knew this. His memory was faulty, as everyone's is.

And so he tried in earnest to remember his early days with some modesty. Lest, he imagined, he become part of that cold, complacent lot. The ones who—

Father.

I no longer wish to have these feelings, Father.

But help he did. And would. And could. He had the willpower, and the skill, to help these people, these humans, rise above the baser instincts of their species. He could, and had, helped them be more.

Father.

In the next instant he changed clothes. He had been on the balcony still, in his Superman suit, thinking over all of this. And now he was still on the deck but in the few milliseconds it took neurons to fire in that advanced Kryptonian brain, he was changed. Into Clark Kent's comfortable Levis and tan leather brogues, into Clark Kent's old and comfortable flannel shirt buttoned all the way up but for the top two. Back on the balcony, leaning on the railing holding a cool bottle of Fordham Copperhead.

Feeling the cool air on his face.

He felt alone.

But he forced a smile.

The door opened behind him.

"Hey," she called up and he turned and she was closing the door, dropping her keys on the table, sliding her coat off. All in one slick move. They met each other's eyes and shared a smile, a moment. A pittance.

Little moments, he well knew, made this worth it. Of all his relationships, this was the one most important.

She was his world.

"I'm sorry I'm so late," Lois said and was at his side, leaning on the balcony and breathing in the cool air.

"It's alright," he said. But kept his distance.

"You okay?"

"Sure," he lied. "Just thinking."

She nodded slow. Clapped her hands together and looked away at the city. "Dad used to say—doesn't do any good to stew on it."

"He's a wise man," Clark said.

"Oh don't tell him that," she said and scoffed. "Never hear the end of it."

Clark looked at her. "How is he?"

"He's fine," Lois said. "You know Dad. He took Mom out to Pebble Beach last week."

"Golf?"

"He said it's an experiment," Lois said. "I swear to God he's never experimented with anything in his life, you know, it's all planning and execution for the inimitable General Lane."

"It's his nature," Clark said. "But maybe he's loosening up as he approached retirement? He's almost there, yeah?"

"End of the year," Lois said. "Maybe you're right. We ought to go with him one day, out on the course."

He let out a little chuckle. "I've never even played putt-putt, Lois—"

"Well, neither has he," she said. "I'm sure it'll be a lovely afternoon."

He laughed again and leaned in, and she did the same. Their lips met in a short embrace that turned into a long one. When the moment had passed and Clark was satisfied he had made her happier, happier despite the tumult around them and more still to come, he pulled away. He did so slowly, and watched a million nerve-endings in Lois' face light up and dance through her. It was magic. It really was. He smiled.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too, Clark."

"So," he said. "Maybe we could have your parents over for dinner some night?"

"I already asked," she said and smiled. "But they said probably not for a month or so. I guess after Pebble Beach he's at Wright-Patt, then back at Edwards."

"Boy, they really take him everywhere don't they?"

She made a face. "Always."

He put his arm around her and pulled her close. "It'll be alright." "I know," she said and kissed him again. After a moment: "I know...there are things you aren't telling me, Clark."

He breathed.

"Yes."

She waited. Then: "I wish you could trust me."

He looked away and felt a wrench in his gut. That psychosomatic twist that accompanied guilt or shame. He kind of slumped standing there.

"I'm thinking about going north," he said.

"The fortress?"

"Yeah," he said. "Talk to my father. See if...I can make sense of what's happening

She looked at him. "Is it Luthor? Or...something else."

"I'm not sure," he said. "I'm not sure I have words for what I'm going through." Then he looked square at her, his body slumped, his face sunken and sad. "I'm sorry."

She hugged him tight, pressed her face against him and felt some tears welling.

Then he was gone.

Lois stood alone on the balcony watching the night sky.

"I love you, Clark..."

* * *

Luthor.

Time passed for him as well. The end of the No Man's Land came and went and with it his own increased political capital. By the summer, it was him. And George. And Albert. Going for the White House.

He hated them both.

The end of the No Man's Land also meant the end of his time in Gotham, and he was glad for the chance to be rid of it. Not least because the Gotham Bat had threatened him, not so subtly, with. Well. Something. Not the first time he'd had to deal with the Batman. And not he hoped the last. But this one was more characteristically full of bluster than most their encounters: the belligerent result of the Bat being backed into a corner. And yet. In a place like quake-ravaged Gotham what chance did simple fear have against the existential dread of civilization on the wane?

In a way, Luthor lived on fear as much as the Bat did. The kind of fear, of power, you couldn't buy. Batman looming over him with all the subtlety of a brick to the face. "Get out of my town, or—"

"Or what."

Luthor had interrupted him. An old trick he learned on the street. Shut them up before they get the chance to have a dick-measuring contest with you. Before they get to pretend they wear the nice suit and own the street. Pretend they're Capone or Rothstein or whoever else they think is In Charge. Luthor figured it out early on.

No one was in charge.

The world was rudderless.

It made him an atheist, and he felt no compunction about taking the strong guys who originally had the block by Carmazzi's and breaking their minds with the knowledge that their world was bleak and meaningless. Good papist boys who loved their mothers. Old school mobsters. Their kids, Luthor found out later, grew up to be Gazzos. The Metropolis Racket.

He remembers them fondly.

Little Alex Luthor strolls right up to the night shift guy, Fatty Arbuckle except his name is something Gazzo. Alex only calls him that because he reminds him of Fatty Arbuckle, all rolls and a bloated frog face, and a ghastly toothy smile. Little Alex in his dungarees and PF Flyers and a ratty white shirt hanging around a scarecrow frame and he says-

He says, "This block belongs to me now."

Fatty laughs.

"You run along, little boy, before someone decides to do something about you, huh."

Luthor stands still.

Fatty Arbuckle gets up and his rolls undulate as he does. Luthor cracks a smile.

"You little shit," Fatty says. "I tell you to leave, you leave, you stupid or somethin?""

Fatty grabs Alex by the collar and lifts him. The shirt barely holds.

Fatty draws up a fist.

His critical mistake is waiting.

Alex unclenches one hand and jams the shiv into Fatty's neck. He drops Alex, who lands in a crouch and kept his eyes on Fatty as he stumbles backwards. Backwards into an overstuffed grocery cart, backwards onto the park bench. Again his rolls shake, his whole body, a grotesque building whose foundation has just gone out from under it. His eyes go wide and he realizes he's choking on his own blood.

Not dying. Not yet.

"Or something," he says. And jams the shiv into Fatty's throat. Right under his adam's apple.

Fatty's lips move but nothing comes out. He puts out one arm, towards Alex. He slides off the bench, flat on the concrete, and starts shaking and gurgling.

Luthor straddles him.

Fatty closes his eyes. Luthor grabs one and pries it open. He gets close and jams the shiv again into Fatty's cheek, the soft tissue between orbital and jaw, and it goe in so easily, like a pierced ear, like nothing at all, like butter.

Fatty gurgles his last. And then he shakes no longer.

Luthor breathes out once. A mad bull before the run. He stands and turns around. His first taste of blood, and every inch of him is alive with the knowing of it. Yes I've done this. I don't care that I've done it. I'll do it again and again and again until they learn. Until they learn this is what happens when you cross Lex Luthor.

Lex.

He thinks it over. Rolls it over his tongue.

Lex.

Always before it was Alex. Alexei. To mother, Alexander. But here now. Life is so short, and people are so disposable.

Lex.

He looks up.

The newsboys are standing there, this uniform dazed look over the lot of them. Suicide Slum's characteristic and cheerful gang, none the worse for their poverty and homelessness. He looks at them and said, "gentlemen."

Scrapper makes a face and says, "who the fuck talks like that, Alex."

Luthor cocks his head and walks up to Scrapper. "I do," he says, and stabs Scrapper right in the groin. The kid falls with no protest and the rest of the group does that often-nervous, always-terrified, backing away slowly thing.

Luthor smiles.

"Gentlemen," says the twelve-year-old. "It's ours."

Tommy looks around. No screams, no one's calling the traffic officer over, for Fatty. No outrage. Not for Fatty. Or for Scrapper. He looks around and takes a breath and he says, "all of it?"

Luthor nods.

Slowly, the gravity of the situation settles in. Tommy starts nodding too. Then the rest of them.

And that was that. As before, he had to remind himself, the world. The world for Lex Luthor. And the fate of poor Scrapper there, for anyone who felt otherwise.

That had happened when he was a kid. All these years later he still carried that righteousness, that fire, within him. He felt it countless times in his youth. Countless times in universities that were beneath him, which he entered on the strength of his prodigious mind and silver tongue. Countless times as an adult ruling this city from his modern perch. The LexTower, an arbiter for them all. He felt it every time he faced Superman. And the goddamned Gotham Bat. And Lois.

All of them.

He felt it now. Sitting on a front porch in Texas heat, drinking a beer—he hated beer—listening to two idiots talk. He heard them as abstractions, and focused on the sunrise.

Sunrise. Eight in the morning and these idiots were drinking. He didn't mind that part. But he supposed he'd rather have his beloved Glenmorangie with him.

Idiot Number One: "Well, I think we've just got to keep in mind there were mistakes with the previous administration. My administration would not have done what he did to Gotham City. It won't happen on my watch."

Idiot Number Two: "A decision had to be made, George, I'll be honest with you I don't think it was the right one. But it was Congress who overrode the veto. Don't you think they own this?"

"I'm saying y'all own it."

"Everyone except you," Gore said and let out a little snort.

Bush: "You're gettin narrow there."

Gore looked at Luthor: "Mister Lewthor, you wanna jump on in here?"

Luthor sighed and looked over at them. "Well, boys, I think it's a group failure. Humanitarian efforts are funny like that: when you care for everyone, everyone shares the blame."

"Come on now," Bush said. "Don't trot out your Final Night line, Lex, we've heard it."

"Heard it?" Luthor said. "Or have you just gotten tired of hearing it? Because while you were busy losing a baseball team I was saving the planet from an alien and an Air Force pilot run amok."

Luthor took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, lily-white wainscoting between the beams.

"Fine," Bush said. "Al here wants to talk about the environment."

"What about it," Luthor said.

Gore looked at him, his jaw slacked a bit, and he looked at Bush for a reaction. Bush just pursed his lips and looked around. He was, Gore noticed, maybe for the first time, uncomfortable in his own skin.

"Planet's doomed, guys," Gore said. "I don't know how clear I can be on this."

"No," Bush said. "It's not. You're worried your star is falling."

Luthor smiled.

"I'm not," Gore said. "There's data. We're not gonna go live on Mars, guys, we have one planet here. We gotta start thinking of saving what's left. We need to start looking at introducing emissions limitations bills."

"They'll fail," Bush said.

"And take you with them," Luthor said. "You introduce one bill to satisfy the hippies, and flyover country gets angry. I don't mind telling you, Albert, it's a one-term policy."

Gore looked at him. "If you could call me Al? That'd be great."

Luthor leaned in. "Pronounce my name correctly, and we'll see."

Gore sighed and shook his head, a trifle, an annoyance. Luthor narrowed his eyes. He traded a glance with Bush for a minute.

Here he was in cow country, oil country, his time being wasted, while the two contenders bartered pointlessness as policy. He expected that—the lowness, the commonness he'd killed his parents for.

But.

These people.

Bush said, "We're at the point where it's just the three of us. You sure you don't want to pick a side here, Lex?"

Luthor eyed the beer. "No."

"No?"

"No," Luthor said. "I'm giving them a better way."

"You're being a contrarian," Gore said. "It's childish."

"With respect, Mister Vice President," Luthor said, "No. It's synergistic and I'm afraid you're both too entrenched to see it. A hundred and fifty years of your partisan foolishness and this country is as broke and hopeless as it was when I was young."

Bush looked at him. "That's a real positive message there, Lex."

"It's the world as I find it, George."

Gore said, "Bleak."

"Accurate," Luthor said. "You're both perpetuating a broken system. Fighting for scraps of this world instead of doing the responsible thing. Accomplishing miracles. Sending us to the stars."

"Among aliens?" Bush said. "Not a chance. Not on my watch."

Luthor sneered. "The aliens are here, George. But even without that, this all makes me wonder. This cowboy swagger of yours. How do people take you seriously, between that, the Yale degree, and your little cowboy hat."

"Now listen," Bush said. "You're not perfect either. But I asked y'all here to see if we could do something together. Whoever wins inherits a poisoned chalice. We need to work together."

Gore looked up at him. "Why?"

"Because," Luthor said, "he wants make sure if he loses he'll still have a place at the table. Isn't that right?"

Bush's scowl was legendary. Not merely disapproving but quite penetrating. Maybe it would have worked on someone else.

Maybe.

Gore stood. "Guys," he said.

"You," Bush said and his steely eyes stayed upon Luthor, "Wouldn't know the first thing about running this country."

Luthor said, "Maybe. Maybe not." He leaned on the railing and folded his arms. "So you can risk some smear campaign against me, both of you. We could do this three-way battle, or we can accept we're never going to get along personally, and that this meeting was wrong action. Not to mention a waste of my time. We can pretend to cross the aisle—the old canard everyone wants but really doesn't—or we can accept that none of us will ever see eye to eye. I'm willing to smile and shake your hands in public, boys, but I want this out of the way now: I can't stand either goddamn one of you. And if you get in my way, I refuse to be held responsible for what happens."

"Jesus," Bush said. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm going to win," Luthor said.

Gore breathed and paced around. "So damn cocky. Should have stayed back East."

"And you," Luthor said and laid dead eyes on Gore. "Poor Al, tied to Bill's wagon. Tied to Gotham, and Yemen, and poor little Ken Starr. All of those things make a zero-term policy, Albert, you-"

"I know!"

Gore fumed out a perturbation of a sigh and looked away, into the fields. He bowed his head, his body slumped, and he said, "I know."

"Then why are you doing this," Bush asked.

Gore spun around. "I'm doing it because it's right! Because it's decent! Because we deserve someone who can do the job and I think it can be me!"

Luthor was silent. He drummed his fingers against his thigh for a moment.

Bush looked at Luthor. He said, "me too."

Luthor scowled. So help me God he scowled at them, and when Bush caught it he slunk back in place like Luthor had violated him on a personal level. Luthor only said, "Two martyrs. Jesus Christ..."

Bush glared at him again: "You don't give a damn about people, Lex, do you?"

"You might be right," he said. "I love Metropolis, I really do, George, but I don't like it and I don't have to. I don't have to be their friend. Reach out and have a beer with some low information moron who thinks his internet connection entitles him to his opinion? No. LexCorp gives their kids scholarships and their parents jobs. Create enough opportunity and everyone looks the other way."

"You can live with yourself," Bush said. His voice crept up at the end, almost a question, almost a surprise. "With everything you've done. You think you can do this job and still be you?"

"Oh," Luthor said. "That is just a question for us all, isn't it."

Gore watched him for a moment. Finally he said, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Luthor got in his face and whispered. Tranquil fury. "Long term change," he said. "Lex Oh Four. Lex Oh Eight. Lex Twelve. Lex Sixteen. Lex Twenty. Do you understand what I'm telling you? Superman Forever? Hm. Luthor Forever."

Gore sunk back into the seat. His gaze was stuck on Luthor. Next to him, Bush had checked out, watching the sunrise.

Gore wiped his mouth.

Bush said it first:

"You're insane."

"Hm," Luthor said and looked at the ceiling. "Such a small word. For a small mind."

"We'll stop you," Gore said.

Luthor was down the steps. Heading toward his car. "No," he said. "You won't."

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	4. The Problem With Democracy

__**The White House  
January 20, 2001**__

 _ _Dear Lex,__

 _ _Today you embark on the greatest venture, with the greatest honor, that can come to an American citizen. Like me, you are especially fortunate to now lead our country in a time of profound and positive change, when old questions not just about the role of government, but the nature of our nation, must be answered anew. You lead a proud, decent, and good people. And from this day you are our President. I wish you much success and much happiness. The burdens you now shoulder are great but often exaggerated. The sheer joy of doing what you believe is right is inexpressible.__

 _ _My prayers are with you. Godspeed.__

 _ _Sincerely,__

 _ _Bill__

* * *

Pete.

Then.

They were friends.

Weren't they?

Pete and Clark had grown up together. Smallville, Kansas, and if the name didn't give you a sense of the scale, or lack thereof, the graduating classes topped ninety most years, half the county was related, and everyone knew everyone's business, or thought they did. The exact opposite of Metropolis in every way that mattered: there you could hide, blissful anonymity in a city of twelve million, find a corner and make it your own. Live and die in the City of Tomorrow, join a cosmopolitan populace keen on their own progress. To be part of that, Pete thought. What an alluring thing.

And yet.

Clark and Pete had taken different paths.

Smallville was home, and he was well aware of that. But still Pete chafed under it. He was a quiet intellectual in a family, a community, of loud laborers, and as he grew up he became used to the folksy smallness, so obvious you almost hate to say it. A concept given reality, and time and space enough to grow. You knew everyone. Everyone knew you. Everyone knew your parents, your grandparents, where they'd gone to school, what they did—which, farming. Far and wide. Farming. Big broad Osage County where—

Where the fields stretch so far into the horizon that at a certain point it doesn't look entirely real anymore—

Where they stretch so far that you start getting ideas about going beyond that horizon, about leaving and becoming your own person—

So far that pure possibility, the idea you get to just Go and Do becomes an unmanageable thing. How do you leave your world and go beyond when your world is all you've known?

He'd have to leave the farm, one thing's for sure. That damn farm. Pete rolled the word around in his mind. The farm. How's the farm. Oh Peter it's nice to see you tell your parents I said hullo and how's the farm, and I will Mrs Fordman thank you, and Oh the beans look good this year, and Oh yes but we could use rain.

How angry it made him. To be as smart as he was and languishing here among people who would never grow up and leave, never aspire to something other than what society intended.

He knew he couldn't be angry. It was everyone's livelihood and Peter did not want to upset the apple cart. His was a life of quiet duty, even as a child when he couldn't understand what Duty really was. Wake up, do your chores, go to school, come home, do some more, it puts food on the table Peter don't you want to eat?

Yes.

The opportunity came in High School. Government class senior year, he had entered an American Legion Americanism and Government Essay contest and found himself a winner. The reward the Legion said was all-expenses paid to Washington, DC, with twelve others from around the state. They toured Antietam on the way, and spent four days touring the Mall, monuments, the State Department-he went back and bragged that he'd met Kissinger. That trip lit the spark. Convinced him that his intelligence was something to be nurtured, that no one else was going to do it for him, life's tough on the farm and you gotta do what you gotta do. He came to see that if he only stretched out his hand and went after the things he wanted, he could have them. He would have them. Achievement, he convinced himself, was an act of sheer will.

There were city mouses from Topeka alongside country boys like him on that trip. At least he thought they imagined him a country boy. Perception after all is everything. Certainly he did not think of himself that way—stereotypically. He had pursuits. Hobbies. A voracious mind that ate up everything it came across.

He wrote an accounting of his trip, extolling DC's historicity and emotional effect upon him as well as what the role of government and individuals could or, he guessed, should be. He presented it to Mrs Sidders for his final AP English valuation—Sidders in turn encouraged him to submit a version of it as entrance exam to his college choices: the state university in Lawrence, and Georgetown. A long shot. But he wanted it. By the time he had sent the application off in the mail he had convinced himself it was happening.

And it did.

And he left. Graduated alongside Clark and Lana, his best friends in the whole world, and then they were off. Clark, to the Wayne Boring School of Journalism at the University of Metropolis, Lana to Lawrence and the State University, Pete to Georgetown. To DC. Again.

And other things started happening. He continued achieving. In his memory he lamented that it was all a blur, all these years later. Internships with congressmen. He met Tip O'Neil in a back hallway and thanked the man for his work and the impact it had had on Peter's life, and O'Nell shook Pete's hand with his sausage link fingers and told him, "you're new, Ross, stay new. Stay hungry. Keep going."

And he did. He remarked often to mother and to Mrs Kent that it all seemed to be going like autopilot. Achievement. Achievement. Achievement.

He found himself a State Senator. Two terms there, then Congress, and under O'Neil's wing until the old man died. All of this while Clark was far away in Metropolis working for the Planet and being Superman. Pete dare not say anything, to Lana, to anyone, about the pit in his heart. The one that festered and burned after a conversation with Clark one day.

I'm Superman.

And you're not.

So what are you.

He tried to find things to occupy his time. His life. Aside from the fantastic bullshit of Clark's life that had intersected with his—Doomsday, an alien calling itself Brainiac, and all of that come to bear on his infant son—Pete persevered. Or forced himself to. To find the purpose he imagined Clark had.

The Senate gave him that. Public service, or so he kept telling himself, gave him that. He came to believe he was keeping Kansas' ancestral progressivism alive, to the furore of some and the love of others. He told himself he could live with that. The distinctive mixture of love and hate that O'Neill had said comes with public service.

It was a good life.

Then Luthor came.

* * *

Lois.

She hated sleeping—an artifact from her college years. Instead she preferred the hustle-bustle, the murderous schedule which university then, and the _Daily Planet_ now, gave her. She liked the rigor of it all. Her father's sensibilities creeping through. She woke slowly, lazily, thought of a time before. A time above. Before Clark, before the Planet and the careerist woman she had become, there was Willi. In the instant before she rose out of bed she remembered him. Cute little guy from SUNY used to come see her on the weekends, and, if he played his cards right, through the week. It was fun and dangerous and it let her blow off some steam.

And then it stopped being fun.

She was sorry. She told him as much. There was yelling. None of it achieved anything. Couldn't he see she was trying to make something of herself? What was she going to do, graduate college, get this degree for nothing, and then fly back home and bust out babies? Willi had asked what was so wrong with that. A life that's good enough can be a good life. He tried to tell her, and she wasn't having it. They disagreed, and that was the charitable way of putting it. So he moved off. She did too. She sat up in bed, and the memory of Willi dropped from her mind. Maybe—

The room was dark but for the television's glow. Clark was watching the television on mute. She sidled up next to him and wrapped one arm around his bare shoulder. She saw cameras and the talking heads on some street. Maple leaves lining it, quaint storefronts within the camera's view and, she well knew, beyond.

Not just some street.

Main Street in Smallville.

"What the hell."

"I know," Clark said and his eyes were still on the television. "I saw them from orbit. He's making an announcement today."

Lois' eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. Just on the edge of saying-

She stayed quiet, and watched every movement on the screen. News crews moving in and out of the General Store on the Main Street. All the vultures. WGBS was broadcasting a countdown: "LUTHOR'S VEEP AT 8AM!" The usual vultures were there. WGBS had the exclusive and the front row placement. CNN, GNN and GCN, Fox, affiliates from across Kansas, even the Comedy Channel, and the press pool from the major papers and one very intrepid small-towner. And of course everyone's favorite lickspittle, Luthor's private televised Pravda: WLEX. In the throng of reporters just outside the door, she noticed Killian and his __Ledger__ staff. Paul Gustavson next to him, the two of them sharing a smoke, George Taylor with a __Daily Star__ press pass sticking out of his hat, just as the camera moved through and planted itself across from the soda jerk.

Lois inhaled and felt it light up every inch of her. She wished she had a smoke.

"We've been scooped, haven't we?"

Clark said, "Yeah." He grabbed the remote and thumbed the volume up.

It was Cat Grant standing in front of the camera. WGBS' finest. Behind her the crowd parted, and there he was.

Luthor.

Black trousers—it was always black, Lois knew, and all of them Brooks Brothers, he was obsessive like that—and an awful yellow shirt buttoned up his chest but for the top two, a glimpse of the physique underneath. Sleeves rolled up in that politician's way: look at me, I'm relatable, I crease my shirts just like you.

Next to Luthor there was Pete Ross.

Lois for some reason thought of her dad. She had a memory of protestors outside the White House, or watching them on the television at least, and her father, the intractable Major Lane in those days, sneering at the television and saying, look at those protestors, Lois, a bunch of elite—

Well. He always had a way with profanity. She wondered what the now-General Lane thought of Luthor, just about as far from a communist as one could humanly get.

She watched Pete Ross sit there on his barstool, in this bowling shirt she was sure some aide bought for him and told him to wear because it would make him look real. Pete Ross, with his hair combed over and forward in a stylish wave. He looked young and in charge.

And Luthor, well—

She knew how he looked.

She coughed a little. Maybe it was vomit. She humored herself and thought it was the latter.

She glanced at Clark, still sitting there enraptured. She imagined he was fixed on Pete.

A time zone away in the middle of a bright farmland morning—she tucked that line away for use in today's invariable column about this carnival sideshow—she watched Cat Grant spew a bunch of bullshit.

She wished there was a better word for it.

Cat was plastic and perfect: "...So we're in the breadbasket of America with presidential candidate Lex Luthor, and Mister Luthor, you've got some exciting news for us, haven't you?"

Luthor smiled broadly and his tanned skin shone in the studio lights. He leant back on the counter, gesturing with one hand and said, "As a matter of fact I do, Cat. Several months ago when I began this race to the White House, I knew I wouldn't be doing it alone—and so I'm delighted today to announce my running mate. He embodies the very spirit of our campaign and I honestly can't think of a better-qualified man than the former Senator from this great state, Mister Pete Ross!"

Pete gave a schoolboy smile and did not stand. He waved his hand and said his thank yous to Luthor and Cat and the press pool. He cleared his throat like a rank amateur and said, "Well, that's some buildup, Mister Luthor, thank you again. I'll take some questions now, guys."

The pool erupted. Through the din, Ross picked out Gustavson, kneeling in the front row: "What went through your mind, Pete? How did it feel saying yes?"

Pete gave a nervous laugh.

At Lois' side, Clark was gone. She felt the wind behind him and touched the spot on the bed where he had been sitting. She looked at the bed, and at her own hand laying still upon the rumpled sheet. She frowned and felt.

Empty.

She looked back at the television.

"You know," Pete said, "When Lex first asked me, I was hesitant. I'd only ever been a state senator, I was used to roaming Congress, whipping the votes, that sort of thing. To be Vice President would be a step more, a huge responsibility—but I couldn't say no."

Knox from the Gotham _Gazette_ stuck his pen in the air and Pete singled him out. "Question. Why take the leap?"

"I'm a country mouse," Pete said and kept the boyish smile. "Lex is a city mouse. We each know things the other doesn't. We do. And that's useful. We can bounce ideas off each other in constructive ways, I really feel like I have his backing and I've got to tell you all, he knows he's got mine. Ha. Or else I guess I'm walking home, right, Lex?"

The pool ate it up. Broke into laughter, Luthor included. He put on his public face, and his public voice, and he said in range of the mike, "Say, isn't that our old friend Clark Kent in the back there? Come on up here, Clark!"

The crowd parted, and up came Clark, in his jeans and flannel button-up, glasses loose on his nose, forcing a slouch only to be righted when Luthor parked next to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

All three of them were on camera at that point. Cat out of broadcast, mouthing "vamp!" and making a circle with her finger.

Lex seized the moment. He stuck himself between them, an arm around each shoulder, and smiled smooth and easy into the televisions of millions.

"Childhood friends, Clark and Pete," Luthor said. "And the most important thing about that is seeing how these two young men, both coming from a small town in America, would grow up and be as successful as they have. That, my friends, is the American Dream, and it's the Better World we're building."

The camera went away from them. Followed Luthor across the store glad-handing the press and the patrons alike.

Lois sighed and relaxed on the bed. She clicked the television back on mute and looked at the ceiling.

She was reasonably sure it was vomit now.

In Smallville, Clark decided to be forceful. Once the cameras were off of him, and Pete tried to slide away, Clark grabbed his forearm gently and said, "I need to talk to you."

And they went outside. Hovered around a postal box down from the General Store. They were silent for a moment. The sun and the heat seemed to beat down on them. Clark was staring up and down the street. Pete was leaning against the building. Staring at the concrete. Staring at nothing.

"What the hell do you think you're doing," Clark said.

Well, that did it.

"Oh my god, Clark—"

"You don't need to yell—"

"I'm trying—"

"I need to know what went through—"

"Its my job Clark—"

"It's my job too—"

"No it's not!"

Silence.

"No it's not," Pete said again. "It's not your job to tell me what I can and can't do."

"I'm not saying that—"

"Oh the hell you aren't, don't be his Vice President, that's what I'm hearing—"

"No it's—"

"Yes it is you think—"

"I think you're making a mistake!"

Clark sighed. He felt it through his whole body, like it took years, and when it came and went he slouched standing in place. Atlas beleaguered.

"It's a mistake," Clark said. "I came out here, I wanted to understand why you made this decision. I wish to heaven I could but I can't, Pete. I just can't."

Pete was quiet. He leaned on the postal box and looked down the street. These maple trees have been here for years and they just keep doing their thing, life and death, through all the bullshit around them. All the movement of life on this planet, humans poisoning it, these trees should be dead but here they are. They've made something of it. Pete heard a faint wind rustle through them and imagined, childishly, they were talking. Look at him. He doesn't understand it. He never will. How could he. He's not Superman.

Pete frowned and wondered when he had acquired this. This self doubt.

"When I was in DC," Pete said. "I used to see Luthor come down whenever the spirit moved him, he'd walk into Tip's office, and hand him a check and ask for this, or ask for that. He just made things happen. That's power you can't buy."

"It's wrong."

"I know," Pete said. "I've wanted to stop it for years."

"And you think being Vice President can do that?"

"I think I can help," Pete said.

Clark was quiet. He looked at Pete plaintively and started pacing around. Ran broad, muscular arms through his hair and waited. What to say. What not—

"Clark." Pete said it in this voice that sounded like his father. Clark looked at him.

"Say it," Pete said. "Something is on your—"

"He tortured my parents. He tortured Lana. I can't let that pass." It was an uncharacteristic display of emotion. Out of everything else Lex Luthor had done to Clark personally. To Lois. To Metropolis, to the Justice League and to the world, it came back to first principles. Aurelius teaches us to mind them after all. And Clark's first principle was always his friends. They were his family. Luthor had none of his own, and so could not understand the bonds of affection that drew people together. He couldn't. He never would either.

Clark just.

He knew him.

Luthor would never change.

He tortured her.

He tortured her.

Father—

Pete scratched his head. As he stared at the sidewalk he said, "This is not about Lana."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't!" He yelled it out and threw his hands up. "You are not the center of the goddamn universe, Clark, just because you think something is about something doesn't mean it is! Lana has moved on."

"Has—"

"Other people have lives, Clark, we can't just do what we wanna do when we wanna do it. I have a family, I have to support them. I have to make choices that affect them. Maybe if you and Lois—"

Pete stopped. He looked Clark and at himself.

Clark looked right back. "If we what."

And when he saw Pete step back, slowly, his head darting up and down the empty street, Clark was silent and scowling. His eyes glowed. So help me god they glowed.

"Pete he's lying to you. He killed people. Women and children, Pete. Children."

"Clark I have to try. Maybe I can stop him."

"He'll never stop."

"Maybe," Pete threw up his hands and strained to say it. He shuffled in place and held back his anger. "Clark maybe he's not some super villain, okay?! Maybe he can change things. Maybe this is all in your head!"

Clark stayed quiet. His face wasn't quite scowling, but wasn't blank or distant either. Very much in the moment. As they say. And what a grim visage it was, words elude me, that perfect face, that perfect hair, the visage of a man, an alien just like us, glowering.

At Pete.

He shook his head.

"He can't," Clark said. His voice was quiet and mournful. Wishing for any other outcome than the one they had. In this moment, in this world...

Pete.

Clark was quiet. He looked away.

What to say. What not to say.

He's.

Father, he's my best friend.

Pete spoke, thin and fragile. "Clark. You're my best friend. But this is something I have to do. Okay? They're waiting for me in there. I have to go."

Pete passed him and went back to the door.

Father—

The trees rustled, as if in a gentle breeze.

* * *

Luthor.

Years ago.

He thought the sign was a bit much. Metropolis 900 miles, I mean really, who does that. Someone trying to mock. Maybe.

One thing was certain. He hated it out here. This Missouri cow country. He was glad he never had to grow up in such squalor, although only Suicide Slum could compare to this human horror. Far flat farmland and obnoxious, pathetic people living flat, barren lives which they felt were.

Enough.

Well, it was enough for him.

Here he sat, in this booth with sinking broken springs. In this restaurant he owned far out here where nothing ever happened. Ordered the steak and eggs and a large, hot, black coffee. The sun beat through the windows, great glass affairs, a desolation of a wheat field beyond. He felt calm. The kind of calm that only comes with the right cup of coffee, or the existential joy of being in the right place at the right time. Noon of a summer day and here he was. In this place. This nowhere. The vast expanse between the coasts, which was where things actually mattered. He wondered if he could help her to see that, and not just see it but to cherish it. To take her and bend her into something like him.

In the war.

He breathed and held the mug just under his nose, and pretended the sludge in it was anything but. He took a drink and felt it dance over his tongue. Boy, it was dirt. He smiled. The bitterness, he thought, makes it all the more flavorful.

Beautiful things shouldn't last.

Nothing does.

He was vaguely aware of the time, by the position of the sun in the sky. He imagined he had spent the better part of an hour in here. Drinking his copy. Reading the same stupid article in _The Financial Times_ about Steve Forbes. He sort of. Spaced out.

And watched her.

She moved with a bumpkin's grace, there was some lithe carriage in the hips but you could tell she grew up on a farm. Knew how to wrestle a pig, as they say. There was a sinewy strength in her arms, he noticed as she cleared the booth in front of his. Slender tendonous hands, white skin stretched over them and going up into pale straws for arms that disappeared into a dead common waitress uniform. Yellow frock with a white apron cinched high on her waist, just below pert breasts: paradoxically shown but covered. A teleology of duality, of despair. She wanted to be anything other than what she was. He sympathized and kept cool, even eyes upon her. her face was square and plain, not a bad thing, and when she smiled you saw the creases from too many Winstons thin away as the corners turned up into her cheeks. It made a nice plumping effect. Her eyes were brown and yet they glowed. Curious how the biological quirk of stromae seemed to reveal one's soul. Her hair stuck in the same curled bouffant it had been, he imagined, since oh, probably, seventh grade.

He pulled a cigar, a Fuente, from his jacket and lighted it. The smoke curled around his face and he took a deep breath. Through the smoke he saw her coming.

Finally she was upon him, and spoke. Rehearsed and folkish: "What can I get you sir?"

"You can join me for a little while."

The veneer seemed to crack a little at that. "Oh…no. I couldn't."

He waited.

She said, "I'm very flattered Mister Luthor but Ralli's company policy says we can't sit with the guests. Not while we're on duty anyway."

She knew the language. That was something. He waited. Allowed a smile to creep up.

"Ralli's policy is of little consequence to me, my dear," he said. "You've guessed who I am, you've probably also guessed that I own this restaurant. I own ninety percent of the state. Now please. Sit."

The smile dropped.

She sat. She vocalized some kind of protest: "Maybe. For a minute I could."

"I was imagining a good deal more than a minute," he said. "A month."

Her face blanched. She stirred in her seat.

"I noticed you when I first came in," he said and took a drink. "Jenny, is it? I asked for one of your tables specifically. Now I'm asking you to come with me. Back to Metropolis for one month."

She stood. "Mister Luthor, I happen to be married! And I'm not that kind of girl!"

His eyes stayed on her. She was quiet in the next moment, as if scolded. Somehow she knew she'd overstepped some invisible boundary regarding the rights of employees and humans in social conversation, a boundary only Luthor seemed to be aware of, and how it seemed to offend him.

He kept his eyes on her and did not move. The only wasted motion—

"Everyone," he said. "Is that kind of girl. It's only a matter of price. Sometimes a wedding ring, sometimes a Hollywood contract. Sometimes…people just want a sympathetic ear. What do you want, Jenny?"

"I…"

"One million dollars," Luthor said. In those days a million dollars was nothing to him and even less now. A sucker's game. Tosh, to be thrown out and disregarded as a dialectical balm for the unwashed—"For one month of your life."

She seemed to summon strength from nowhere. "Just because you're the richest man in the world…you may be used to gettin' your way on everything, but not on this, Mister Luthor—"

"Calm yourself," he said. And she did. "You're reacting emotionally, not logically." Another moment passed and he said, "Shall I tell you your life story? You were born here. Not more than a mile from that sign out there, 'Metropolis nine hundred miles'. You were a bright child, and you had dreams of escaping. At night you still dream of a halcyon tomorrow. Anywhere but here. You dream of an island. I see it. You used to dance in the school play. You were a sunflower."

He exhaled. Through the smoke he saw her. More clearly than he had before. She was still standing, but sort of leaning on the leatherette booth cover there. Looking down. Looking at her own worn, aging hands. How many more days and nights in her youth. How many.

He suppressed a smile. Because this was what he did.

Lex Luthor at his finest.

Destroying people.

He didn't need powers to see her. To read her mind. To peel back her heart and know it as intimately as you'd know your own. It was his speciality. Laying the beloved truth before these people.

"A butterfly." She whispered it.

"Of course," Luthor said through the haze. "High school cheerleader. Married the quarterback and wound up with a house, and a mortgage, and responsibilities. No education after school, couldn't afford it. And now you're twenty-two and you feel like you're going on fifty. What does one have to show for a life when it's a life lived like this, Jenny? The future? A television set to show you the world. Images of faraway places, and things, and people…that you'll never get to see. Because of choices you've made. The problem with democracy, Jenny."

She turned away, crossed her arms over her chest. He laid one hand, firm and unmoving, on her shoulder. "A million dollars," he said. "Buys many tomorrows. The price is a month. And it always gets paid."

He walked past her, narrowing up his tie and throwing on his blazer as he went, one save motion, a cloud of smoke trailing above and behind him.

He said, "Think about it Jenny. I shall wait in my car for exactly ten minutes."

And he was gone. She watched him slide out the front door, open one half of the glass panes and stroll out to his car. Not a car, a stretch limo parked across three spaces on the side lot. She watched him go, and open the door, and get in.

She turned and went to the back. The girls were upon her and it all seemed so ridiculous, so robotic, so manufactured and wrong and silly and fun and—

She pushed through the girls and grabbed the phone. She knew the number by heart.

It rang twice. The longest rings of her life. Two warbled chirps in her ear. Finally static, and a man with a pack a day cough.

"Hullo? Thiz Wally here, Wally the Wiz…?"

She stopped.

She took the receiver away from her ear. She became aware she wasn't breathing. She looked around the room. Meaning. A sign. Somewhere. Anywhere. Lord I've never asked for much but oh lord do something for me, let me have some—

She hung up.

Turned around. Went back out to the front.

"Jenny," Aggie said through her horn rims and a pouting, sunken face. "He's."

Jenny went to the window.

Gone.

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	5. Advisement

_The WGBS Evening News, September 11th, 2000, Vicki Vale reporting:_

"Bit of exciting news today out of Metropolis, Mike, as Presidential Candidate Lex Luthor begins to put together some top-level officials for his transition. Mister Luthor was spotted at Pebble Beach for a round of golf with retired Air Force General Sam Lane, while his Vice Presidential candidate Pete Ross was seen to visit Snoqualmie, Washington, where retired General Frank Rock resides. The move adds some weight to Mister Luthor's campaign. According to the latest poll from Pew, Mike, forty-two percent of respondents say that if the election were today they would vote for Lex Luthor. That number is sure to cause some waves in both the Bush and Gore camps. Coming up after the break GCN takes to the streets to ask Metropolitans, Mister Luthor's hometown supporters, what they think of their candidate. Now this…"

* * *

Jenny.

She was tired. Thirteen years in and she was tired.

She tried to remember when it had all gone so wrong—she tried a lot actually, but memory is faulty. As everyone's is. Late at night, after Wally has fallen asleep and she looks in through an open door to see him lying on the bare mattress, she dreams of better things.

They said there was time travel. Alternate universes.

Worlds out there, far beyond this one, where things were different. Where maybe she—

More worlds she would never see.

Thousands of miles from here there were men and women who saved the universe. Who lived outside themselves, served others, and kept the rest of the world safe at night. She envied that. Always did. She never held it against them—city slickers with chips on their shoulders. She kind of.

Believed.

Closest she ever got to seeing one was The Flash. In the old days when she was young but my god she still remembers it. She thinks about that day a lot. Up in Keystone on a shopping trip with Mother. Always a big day when you got to go shopping with Mother. You'd get up early and she'd say Now we're going to Woolworth's and the Blue Fox after so get dressed, we're going to have a fun day.

Mother was keen in that way. Growing up where they did, when they did, there wasn't a lot of money for stepping out as Daddy would call it. But her and Mother did enough. They were happy.

Other things happened. School and involvement. Any sort of club she could get her hands on. Anything and everything. She cheered for four years and dated Wally for eight, ever since she grabbed his hand in fourth grade and he grabbed back and they shared a smile. Other things happened. He took the football team to state and when they won the title, he thanked her and God, in that order.

That was so long ago, though.

So long ago that even her memory of it is now faulty. The way everyone's is.

She was going to be so much more. Once upon a time.

And now there was none of that.

Once upon a time. A fairy tale cliche, she thinks. Not for her. Not anymore.

Once upon a time a very bad man came to town and laid the beloved truth before her.

Jenny.

Those people in Metropolis. The rich and powerful, like Wayne?

You'll never be one of them.

He didn't even need to say it. She saw it in his eyes, through the tobacco haze. Those eyes.

Those horrible green eyes.

She thinks about him a lot these days. And she thinks about Wally.

She wishes he could understand what she's going to do.

She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a ratty corner of a legal pad. She pulls her phone out of the other pocket and dials.

"Greyhound Kanz'City, how can I help you?"

* * *

Clark.

Joseph.

Kent.

And the voice of Zod, from ages before, echoing in his memory.

Clark.

That's the name they gave you. Isn't it.

He closed his eyes and breathed.

He was flying.

Far above the Arctic Circle where the sun hovers omnipresent on the horizon—

Miles above the disappearing ice shelves—

He did not feel the cold. He did not even feel, as he climbed above the Earth, the distant heat from the Sun warming a million capillaries in his skin. Even as he looked at his own hands—

Father.

He had spent some time wondering why he'd built this fortress in the first place.

A place to get away? I fear it's a fatuous thought, Father. I couldn't get away if I wanted. My powers won't let me. I hear everything. I see everything. I help where I can. And—

He took a deep breath and it was then that he felt the cold. He slowed, and right himself. Ahead the sky was cloudless and dark, black space above, pure tundra below and stretching out for miles. And if he held his gaze long enough he imagined he saw the curvature of the earth. He looked down, and focused his gaze on the Earth itself. The tundra was undisturbed and desolate. He heard the wind howling across the white dunes but regarded it as an intellectual curiosity. He looked deeper and saw through the ice. The sea. Deeper—dark silt and fossils underneath—deeper. A mantle. Finally, a molten core. Warm and beautiful. In tandem with their sun, Father, their molten core gives this planet stability it would otherwise not know.

If not for the dynamic miracles that brought this Earth into being. Out of all the impossible chances, for events to conspire in such a way that this Earth formed the way it did, with the life it contained—

Father, it is a miraculous place. Worth cherishing in every way.

So why do I feel like this.

In times past the Fortress was a crystal outgrowth of Kryptonian materials that had accompanied the young Kal-El to Earth. That original structure did not last very long after his debut. It moved around. Changed shapes. The very first iteration was destroyed in battle between Superman, a man named Dominus—

And Luthor.

Clark rebuilt. A crystal remnant remained. Some piece of home. Yes he rebuilt, and so this place—

This Fortress of Solitude—

Remained.

He stopped high above the spires and righted himself. Took another deep breath and allowed himself to feel the subzero arctic wind course through his lungs. Invigorating him. He looked at his hands and smiled as he beheld the microscopic joy of a million nerve-endings light up and dance beneath the surface.

He lowered and the cape flowed up and away in a grand flourish.

The crystal peak parted and gleamed in the eternal sun.

Then.

Home.

The spires closed back over him, and the Fortress spoke in a calming tenor:

"Recursive diagnostics complete. All systems are functional and nominal. Welcome back, sir."

"Thank you, Kelex."

The golden robot was at his side. A lifetime ago it had served Jor-El with distinction, distinction enough that Jor-El had included a digital copy of Kelex's program in Superman's birthing matrix before sending it—

Away.

The robot was in the shape of an inverted tear drop, and hovered around Superman at a distance. Awe and respect, perhaps, or a digital imprint of that cold, efficient world. "Shall I begin dinner, sir? Will Miss Lane be joining us?"

"No," he said. "It's not a leisure visit."

"Of course, sir. If I may, bioscan reveals an elevated heart rate and sleep deprivation. May I suggest you rest before your duties, sir?"

"I'll take it under advisement," Superman said and patted what passed for a shoulder on Kelex. "Can you give me a moment please?"

Kelex said nothing, but hovered away.

Superman landed, as he always did, at the foot of the holoprojection of his parents.

He had made it himself, in an afternoon. The two of them side by side, one arm a piece holding a similar projection of—

Krypton.

Jor-El and Lara.

Superman looked away.

Father, I no longer wish to have these feelings.

At the base of the projection was an electronic console. Switches to control internal systems, a graphical display to interface with Kelex and Kelor, and to deploy security countermeasures in the event of armed incursion. Controls for the holoprojection itself. His fingers danced across the panel.

Looked up at Jor-El, there in his ceremonial finery. Or at least what Clark had been told was ceremonial finery.

Did you wear it as our planet died, Father? As mother gave birth to me? Was it the chief habiliment of the Science Council? Did they wear it as they mocked you? As the planet split asunder and—

"Kal."

Superman turned. On instinct he said, "That's not my name."

"Kal-El," it spoke, and out of the darkness came Jor-El. Not his father. Rather a projection from the Fortress' living software. a digital impression of the man he once was. Clark had interacted with him so infrequently over the years. Usually only in moments of great trial. Jor-El moved slowly, hands touching at the fingers at his center, every movement predetermined. A radio-memory that could interact with the living, far after its own death. Surely, that too was a miracle. Surely—

"Father—"

"You appear distressed."

Superman looked at the console, and the holoprojection.

Jor-El said, "I understand the human desire for verbal emotion. It is a quality worth possessing, Kal."

"There is an election. In my country. One of the candidates is Lex Luthor. His candidacy, and our shared history…I find myself in doubt, Father."

Jor-El did not move. It merely said, "I understand."

Superman looked at him. "Do you?"

"The chronicle of your time on this world," Jor-El said. "Speaks of this Lu-Thor."

Superman started pacing. "I don't know what to do anymore, Father"

Jor-El frowned. As much as it could. "A challenge: why is this man so important to you?"

"I've been doing this for so long," Superman said. "With Luthor. With others. He's escaped justice for so long. He flouts human laws. He's done it all his life. He'll keep doing it as long as he lives. He is everything wrong with these—"

Jor-El waited.

"With humanity," Superman said.

"What will you do," Jor-El said. "If this man becomes their leader?"

Superman—

He allowed a scoff. "Leader, Father, is not the same as President."

"The assumption of office implies leadership. He has led others before."

"Villains, Father."

Jor-El was silent.

"Villains," it said. "Of your story, or of their own?"

Superman—

—Didn't have an answer.

Is it possible that this is nothing. That my own judgments have clouded the issue. Maybe Pete was right. Maybe Lex—

Maybe—

Maybe I don't have a place or an opinion on this. It is a temporal matter.

If I return and tell these people—

If I really care for them—

He looked at Jor-El. "Lex Luthor cannot be President, Father."

"You are certain?"

Superman nodded. He glanced at the ground and then into Jor-El's digital eyes.

"I am, Father," Superman said, "He is vain, cruel. Unrepentant. He believes killing me will make him a savior."

"Does he present a threat to your world?"

Superman nodded. "His blind hatred of me could cause a great disaster. As their leader, he would have access to nuclear weapons. Primitive weapons our world made obsolete hundreds of thousands of years ago, Father. That's not even the worst of it. The most dangerous weapon in the universe is the human mind, Father, and few on this world possess a more keen one than Luthor."

Jor-El was silent. Superman, still agitated, paced around him.

"I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do."

Superman stopped and looked at him.

"You have earned their trust, Kal. You could return to your city and tell them the beloved truth. Save them from the yoke of the would-be tyrant."

Superman glared.

"And become one myself? Imagine such a world."

Jor-El waited a moment. Then it said, "I have seen it, Kal."

Superman looked at him. "With Zod?"

Jor-El nodded once.

Superman shook his head, plaintive and dogged. He looked at Jor-El. "The ease," he said, "with which I could rule this planet, Father. It disturbs me."

"I know," Jor-El said. "So your choice remains. You may continue the path of advisement and intervention you began so many years ago, with the hope that the human race will one day exceed its need for you. Or you may return and bring their errant society to heel."

Superman looked away.

Breathed.

He looked at Lara.

"Are we doomed, Father? Slave to our choices?"

"Kal," Jor-El said. "I sense your desperation with this human. He has earned your ire. But also your compassion. Show him the kind of man you are—the kind of man you have become."

Superman looked at Jor-El.

"—And the kind of man he never shall be."

* * *

Luthor.

And the end was in sight.

October, cold grey skies above and hardening soil beneath his feet. He stood on the lawn at Washington University, stuck in this Missouri wasteland, and imagined he felt the soil, seeping up through his Cole Haans. He wore a black coat that hung motionless about him. Underneath was one of the usual black Brooks two pieces, and a dark green tie in a simple four-in-hand under a spread collar. He stood outside the Field House, staring up at it. He did not feel the chill breeze upon him—or told himself he did not. The sting in his nostrils, the cooling surface of his face.

By now it was just the three of them.

Bush.

Albert.

And Luthor.

He had commanded Ohio, and Super Tuesday, and found himself having his own convention while the major parties fretted, wringing their hands over what was to be done with this Lex Luthor person.

He gave interview after interview. And it was all just.

Too easy.

Luthor cited the previous year's WTO protests in Seattle; he cited unrest in Yugoslavia, unrest in Yemen; he cited the No Man's Land and the Clinton-Gore "failure to act" as symptoms of a problem and himself as the solution. He said the right things. He looked presidential. What he found was that the media and the public were scant on details—big on fluff. Grant told him as much once, off-camera. But it was a lesson Lex Luthor knew all too well. He had been practicing it since childhood after all.

Say the right things. Details are for fools, for aliens with little red capes who don't share your appreciation for mankind.

Look the right way. Not a problem. He was the wealthiest man on the planet and had been since the public offering in Eighty-Five. Wealth and taste were second nature.

The Gotham _Gazette_ , Vale behind it, called him a Great White Shark. "He has the same focused intensity, the same slow purpose and directed look." He wrote a counterpoint in the _Daily Star_ the next Sunday thanking her, and when she went on Grant's show dumbfounded he took it as a win.

He reveled in it all. As his competitors quaked in their shoes and wondered why and when it was that people got so upset at their lots—Luthor took to television.

He went on WGBS with Cat Grant and when Woodburn saw an opening and jumped, Luthor turned it back on him:

"So Mister Luthor, you're a businessman but what makes you think you can run the government like a business? Don't you think it's erroneous to apply some bottom-line thinking to a social state? What would you tell a family of four who's afraid you're gonna cut their government assistance?"

Luthor smirked and looked Glenn right in his Buddy Holly eyes. He said, "It's not about trimming the fat, Glenn, it's about finding the right program that works for the right people. It's like employment. You find the right role for the right person, and you do all you can, you do your best to develop that person into a high-level talent. You create the sense of self where that person can bloom where they're planted, and then forty years later he or she can retire with dignity. There are a lot of moving parts to an economy, Glenn, and giving people the right tools to live the life they want to live is part of that. But I confess I'm only slightly surprised that you want to nail me on a gross generalization. So no, to answer your condescending question, I'm not going to sweep into office and disband the Fed or some such nonsense."

"But—"

"I'm not finished," he said and held a hand up. "Answer me this, Glenn, and you can think about it and when you've gotten a satisfactory answer you can let me know, but answer me this. Why does the prospect of a businessman running this government disturb you so? Is it me as a person or is it just conceptual?"

"Some people," Woodburn said after a gulp. "Are concerned that you're going to burn it all down. In spite of what you've just said."

Luthor smiled and leaned back. "I'm not a destroyer, Glenn. Just a man who wants people to think for themselves. If that means taking a hard look at what role government should play, then that's the future. And I have no qualms about facing such a future. I'd ask any voter who's serious about the world that's coming to join me."

The media devoured it.

 _NewsTime_ called it a pivot.

 _The Daily Star_ called it "Presidential to the last drop."

 _The Washington Post_ asked for a walking tour of LexCorp and a private interview.

 _The Daily Planet_ ran a puff piece on the mistreatment of television journalists.

Luthor went on Larry King the next night. When Larry asked him the hoary bromide about what a Washington outsider can do different, Luthor shut Larry away like he didn't matter. He looked right at at the camera, and said, "Times are tough, Larry. And the tougher times get the more the voters will realize they need someone like me in the Oval Office."

Well.

Here they all were.

He stuck his hands in his pockets, luxurious black calfskin gloves over his elegant tapered hands, and he cracked a smile.

Things were happening.

Things had already happened:

He goes to see Cat Grant, a week after the Woodburn interview, early October, the end in sight. He knew what day it was. He knew where she'd be—

The Jaguar was a gift off the line, a thank-you for the land-grant from LexCorp which made the factory outside Dover a reality. It's a marvel, dark green with tan interior and a custom wood steering wheel from a part of the juvenile redwood in the plaza before the LexTower. He shifts it into first gear and creeps through the cemetery streets, and once he finds her Chevette on one of the twists, he pulls into the berm and waits. But only for a moment.

He gets out out of the car and buttons his jacket.

And walks slowly towards the headstone.

There before a granite obelisk that reads "Adam Grant, 1987-1993, beloved son," is Cat. On her knees more accurately, one slender hand upon the stone, head bowed. She doesn't speak, and doesn't move.

"Cat."

Still nothing.

He cocks his head and finds the right amount of sympathy. He makes his voice crack and he summons out a feeble, "I'm sorry."

Cat slumps further, whimpers.

"The Toyman..."

Then he's at her side, a long shadow over her.

"Cat."

He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

"I'm so sorry, Cat."

She sniffs, and slowly she stands. He helps her up. Her eyes are black and streaming mascara down her face. The rest of her is beautiful. He ups-and-downs her and then he creates a smile.

"It's alright," she lies. "It's just."

"It's the anniversary," he says. "I know."

She dabs her eyes with her fingerprints and sniffles again. "God."

Sniffle. A hand across her nose. More tears.

Luthor makes a face.

"You."

He waits.

"You must think I'm a wreck, Mister Luthor, I'm so sorry."

"Cat," he says and they lock eyes. "You don't need to apologize to anyone. Not anymore."

She smiles and its weak, and Luthor opens his arms. When she falls into a hug he wraps her up close and when she lays her head into the crook of his shoulder he whispers sweet nothings.

"Listen," she says. "About yesterday."

Luthor shushes her.

He breathes deep and as he does he catches the scent of her. Finally places it. Tre'sor and tobacco. And shame. She reeks of it, and it makes him smile.

"I'm sorry this isn't a good time, Cat. But I need to ask you something."

Her face is buried in the crook of his neck and she muffles: "Anything."

"Come work for me. I need a Press Secretary."

She comes away from him and looks him in the eye. The mascara is a single dull smear across on her face.

"Press Secretary?"

"If we win, that is." Another fake smile. "I'm told I'm at the point now where I should start thinking about the transition."

Her mouth opens but only a little. Her eyes are roving around and her brows turn. Gears turning.

He holds her and waits.

Tightens his grip.

"Mister Luthor." The words trickle from her mouth.

He says, "Lex, dear. You must call me Lex." The old lie.

She cracks half a smile. Unassured but seeking confidence. She breathes and each breath brings a bit of calm, a bit of calm.

She looks down, and back up.

Into Luthor's eyes and they are so brilliant and green and she feels them stare right through her. Into her.

Into her very heart.

Her soul.

"Please," he says.

And he kisses her.

She meets it, and presses her hands into his arms.

And she says, "Okay."

And now here he was, at Washington University. Where nothing mattered and nothing ever happened. Millions of people live here and go their entire lives in quiet desperation. Something in him chafed at that, at these people for whom a quiet life was enough.

He felt Mercy at his side.

"They're ready for you, sir."

He looked up. Grey jagged clouds for a sky. He made another fake smile.

He turned and said something nondescript to Mercy. Brushed past her and in he went. To face the idiots and monsters. And all sorts of things in between.

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	6. The Long Twisting Line

_The WGBS Evening News with Cat Grant, October 23 1986:_

"…Well, yesterday Metropolis was all set to cap off the celebrations for her two hundred and fiftieth anniversary. Special arrangements had been made to have the experimental space-plane Constitution land at Metropolis International. This reporter was there in person and has to tell you, Ron, it all happened so fast. A small civilian craft had slipped through restricted airspace and collided with the Constitution, and the experimental jet began to careen toward the crowd. It was then, Ron, that the strange visitor we've heard so much about in the last twenty-four hours appeared and saved both the shuttle and the crowd. WGBS was unable to ascertain his true identity, and still is. Whoever he is, we want to express our thanks for his selfless act, and we hope to see him again soon. Back to you, Ron."

* * *

Years ago.

He stared at the bank of computers, and the large screen display. An image of a gaping redhead facing the laboratory. Her hair pulled back in a smart knot and draping over thin shoulders. Not quite a shrinking violet. But quiet. Unassuming in that midwestern way. When you grow up in the cornfields and never aspire to anything more, it has a way, he imagined, of drawing you in. Closing you off.

He thought of Kent. What Luthor knew of Kent in those days was unimpressive. The country mouse, Kent was, in most public appearances, afraid of his shadow. And yet there was something odd about him. Something that nagged at him.

He was in the middle of the computer lab, dressed in an immaculate black three-piece, his eyes fixed on the screen. One on side his chief technician, another city mouse, this one named Amanda, almost as tall as Luthor himself, and self-possessed. She carried herself—

"We've been working on data collection for months, as you requested, Mister Luthor. For the longest time, I don't mind telling you, we had nothing."

"And yet?"

"And we finally found something. A whale among the fishes, as you're fond of saying."

The screen morphed from the static image of Lana to news footage. He knew it all too well.

The Constitution in flames.

Then a blur. A blue streak across the screens of every entertainment-loving American.

"She was there," Luthor said. His eyes narrowed. "When he saved the Constitution."

Amanda looked at him. "Yeah."

"Fascinating. A super groupie, do you think? A lover, a best friend? What's her name?"

"Jenner and Breen have her downstairs. Lana Lang, lives on State Route One-Nineteen, wherever the hell that is."

"Kansas Cow Country," Luthor said. And he was heading for the door.

He was silent in the elevator, watching the dial slide back down the crescent.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the gold plating, cool and calming on the back of his head.

He thinks of Lois.

In the current day he and Lois Lane were enemies. Rivals fighting by proxy for a vision of what Metropolis and the world could be.

In memory, however—

Lois sees it. She sees the beauty. She sees what he's trying to do and she sees the truth of him.

No one else does. No one else will.

He knows this. She knows this.

He's building the LexWing to make the Concorde a memory. To take people where they want to go. Ah but it sounds like a drug dealer Lex, you can't put that in the press releases. He kisses her forehead and says yes Lois of course. He revises it.

Reimagines himself like he always has. Luthor the Lindbergh. Luthor who came from nothing finally making something.

This aircraft will change everything he says. No longer will we be in thrall to airlines that have the world by the throat. Air transport becomes a public commodity beyond the wildest dreams of Hughes, or Lindbergh, or the Wrights. Luthor is so much more than they were. He is a genius and the start-up loans from Deutsche Bank and Boeing he uses to finance the LexWing's first year and charters from the Grummett-Kesel International Airport he pays back with double-interest, he's earned that much personally off the plane's operations. He takes out a single office on the top floor of the Daily Planet building and Lois is with him. These are halcyon days of peace. Days in which he is growing and Lois is growing alongside him. They are lovers, and friends, and equal parts and greater things beyond. They are challengers; he pushes her to write the first Pulitzer, a scathing review of Kord International's charitable contributions or lack thereof, and when she brings home the actual award he smiles and says do it again. She challenges him to move beyond the one-room office and so he does. He breaks ground on the LexTower in Nineteen Eighty-Five and calls it Year One.

It is a cherished time. He is learning to take control. And she is at his side.

She does not know about his shift toward arms deal, toward flouting the laws of Man. She finds out only after the relationship ends in tears and screams. He does not tell her because he feels he doesn't have to. He owes her nothing. He owes the world nothing.

The world, instead, owes Lex Luthor its every breath. Every moment of life every Metropolitan lives because he invested in alternative fuels, better healthcare options, politicians he secretly bought—

And when he is quiet and Lois cannot see his soul, he thinks of his parents. He remembers the final night. As vividly as he remembers anything—he remembers everything. He swears and curses their names and says he never wants to see them again.

And he won't. They go out later that evening. Alexander you've upset your mother. Father always speaks like that when he wants to put Lex in his place.

I'm no child.

Yes you are. You're a jumped up little shit with too much anger.

You're wrong, Father.

Am I?

And then he takes his belt off and slaps it across Lex's face. Buckle first.

He only loses teeth the first time, a couple of incisors as luck has it. He learns to roll with it. Learns to twist his head at the last moment so the force of the thing rolls through him.

He always learns.

He learns to look the other way when Father does the belt trick to Mother. Learns to look the other way when Father bitches about their poverty, about their dear ancestor's wealth and how it's all gone. He learns anger instead. He learns it when Father storms out, and when the pressboard door snaps off its hinges. He learns to tune out the screams.

He learns to smile through it all. It carries him for the rest of his life, this illusion of self.

And when he finally has it with Father, both of them restraining themselves with niceties like Father and Alexander, he learns to sneak out of the apartment the hard way. The window in his bedroom opens out and up and he crawls out onto the fire walk. Barefoot, not a sound or they'd hear and then that would be that. He climbs down the gutter and jumps to the sidewalk and skitters around to the communal garage. Father's Dodge, dented and broken, if cars had life support it'd have it. He slides underneath.

Scrapper taught him. Look for the long twisting line.

What's the matter Alex can't find it you're such a shit everyone knows it you talk like you're big fucking—

There.

He wraps one skeletal hand around the brake line and pulled.

Brake fluid erupts in his face, on his chest. He spits and wipes his eyes and climbs back out. He's soaked in brake fluid, the stench of it burning his nostrils. He strips his shirt off and drops it in the carport.

Goes back upstairs.

Walks right in.

They're standing in the hall.

You snuck out.

Yes, Father.

One day someone's gonna teach your worthless ass some respect.

He slaps Lex again. Bare-handed. Funny, he thinks, no belt this time. You're learning too, Father.

He slaps Lex again and the force of it and Father's chapped hands burn across his cheek. He blurts out a single obscenity hrough tight lips, tight jaw, tight body. Every inch of him was alive.

We'll finish this when we get back.

They go. The door shuts quietly.

Luthor laughs.

He knows they never will.

He stepped out of the elevator. It all felt so mechanical.

First door on the right. Two sub-basements below the main lobby. A cold, bright, antiseptic room, it had been a sterile laboratory for radiation testing in another life, and would be again.

In the center, bound to chair by the ankles and wrists, her face bruised, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth—

"Lana," he said. "Lana Lang. I'm rather fond of the initials."

She said nothing.

He laid one hand on her knee.

"I only have a few questions, after which you're free to return to your blessed obscurity. If you're honest with me I'll never trouble you again."

Nothing.

"Tell me why you were at the launching of the _Constitution_ , Miss Lang."

Nothing.

"Tell me about Clark Kent."

Nothing.

"This will stay between us. I am sorry for the way my men treated you but it was necessary to get your attention. You see...I know who he is. I have a good idea who you are in relation to him. So I want you to understand this, and I want you to take it to your grave. Because if I find out you've told him any of this, Miss Lang, I'll personally draw and quarter you in the middle of Fifth Avenue and this city will still sing my praises. Superman and all his friends? They must be fought. And defeated. And when they are, you and every last chimpanzee in the jungle will fall on your knees for Lex Luthor."

She began weeping. He scowled and breathed.

"So," he said and moved his hand up. "I'm going to administer sodium pentothal, Miss Lang, and you will tell me every detail of Clark Kent's life. And because I'm such a sporting guy, you'll even tell me about the train station."

* * *

Luthor.

And Albert.

And George.

He felt like he was standing still. Gore was on one side of him, Bush on another, a roundel of an auditorium, so-called undecided voters sitting there judging them all like pieces of cattle.

He held back a sneer. Undecided. The concept offended him on the most basic of levels. These were people who couldn't be bothered to make a decision on anything or deviate from their vaunted principles. Such principles, drawn from the cheapest halls of self-help, surely spelled their doom. Kept them cozened in a corner of the world they daren't escape. If they had any real principles they'd understand the value of making a choice—or not, for the act of not choosing is a choice in itself. And then living with it.

What gives measure to a man's choices, after all, is what he has to give up to make them.

They fear what they don't understand.

He could be their hero. Their savior.

Their new lord and master.

He slid one hand into his pocket and thumbed a chrome flashdrive. And the sneer dropped.

When they won't make a choice, he told the alien once, I make it for them.

A god must be severe.

Lehrer started it off, smug and comfortable in his chair:

"Tonight, from Washington University in Saint Louis and the Commission on Presidential Debates, comes the third Presidential debate. The candidates have met twice before already to discuss ideas and policies, and to present their individual cases for leadership to the American People. I'm Jim Lehrer, your moderator for the evening. Tonight follows a town-hall format: of the over three hundred questions the audience around me has submitted on these note cards, I'll be asking a few and the candidates will respond. We'll then move to follow ups, only, I should note, for clarifications, and then to the next question. And now the candidates.

"The Vice President of the United States, Mister Albert Gore of Tennessee.

"His Republican opponent, the Governor of Texas, George Walker Bush.

"And the independent candidate from Delaware, Mister Alexander Luthor. Gentlemen, welcome."

A golf clap went around the room and they got into it.

He stood between Bush and Gore with the littlest of smirks on his face. Through banalities of healthcare—when it was his turn he cited his company's advances in medical technology, which allowed better living and more robust health at the dawn of the twenty-first century. He talked about how partisanship destroys innovation, the behind the scenes chatter that limits intelligent discourse—that earned a glare from Albert—and hampers us. It was a deviation, a ramble of an answer, but the crowd broke its funereal silence and clapped. Quiet but enthusiastic, and Luthor smiled.

He turned back for his chair and shared a look with Bush. Bush knew it bounced off his own line—get something positive done on behalf of the people.

Gore began loitering. He manufactured a smile, and Lehrer glanced at him.

Next question. A small woman asking about revamping Medicare and lowering prescription drug costs.

Bush dithered.

Gore sat there and listened, and then started campaigning out of his ass.

Lehrer said, "Mister Luthor?"

Luthor looked at him, and then at Bush and said, "sure, reform Medicare." The room chuckled. Luthor looked around. "No, I mean every word. Reform it. Reform it all, and I invite the Vice President to have the same view. The system has issues, sit down and rewrite the damn thing, are we concerned about expanding the bureaucracy? Hands up if you are. We'll find a solution for that too. Jim, I've said this for months. You have one way with the Governor, one way for the Vice President—there's value in a third way. You can legislate and legislate all you want, but bill after bill muddies the waters and makes regulations not to mention all our lives much more difficult. Not to mention ridiculous. So yes, I agree with the governor that the best way to 'fix,' if that's the word, is to reform it."

Bush piped up. "Sounds like Mister Luthor wants to burn it all down."

Luthor looked back at him and cracked a smile. "Not necessarily. But change is risky, Governor. Always is."

Moments passed. Luthor spaced out, and thought of Lois.

Bush went into a tangent about tax breaks, and one-percent returns. He was passionate, seemingly about a top-down tax. Gore chimed in and said Reagan would be proud. It was about as venomous as he could get.

Lehrer asked about income levels, and Luthor promptly said, "Raise the minimum wage."

The room stirred. Some claps and yelps of approval from the cheap seats, and Luthor smiled. He slid so easily into populism, liker he was reaching into their souls., grabbing their hearts and pulling them close.

Bush and Gore started sniping about Medicare and partisanship.

The questions turned toward the Middle East.

Norwood asked what would make them the best president to deal with the crisis.

Lehrer: "Gentlemen, encapsulate it."

Bush said, "I've been a leader. I've been patient." He was kind and compassionate. Cashing in on a steady hand, and playing the other on a grudge against a despot.

Gore waxed and waned on a liberal power fantasy, democracy and human rights.

Luthor said, "I've saved this world. And with no small amount of pride, I've done it from the private sector. We all remember the Final Night where I and my company poured our fullest resources into that conflict. The situation demanded a leader. I stood up. It was an honor to serve alongside those men and women, to fight one of our own gone mad. I stood alongside them as they died in battle. So to answer your question, Mister Norwood, I would be the best because I've saved the world. I'm the only one that can. The only one that has."

The room was silent.

Lehrer moved on.

Luthor went into autopilot. Smile, deflect, push it on Bush, push it on Gore.

Questions about foreign policy for Bush.

Tax credits for Gore.

A question from the back: "How can the Vice President claim a record of success, building on President Clinton's record, when both of them bowed to Congressional pressure and abandoned Gotham City?"

The room stopped.

Luthor turned and looked at Gore.

Gore.

Lost it.

"Well," he said. And stopped. "I think what you find as we looked at the situation from the White House—look, what happened was a tragedy, terrible losses. We tried to save that city, and I talked with the President about realistic options. And some pretty fantastic ones. But none of it worked. To my eternal shame."

Lehrer looked at Bush: "Governor?"

"What we saw in Gotham City, and up and down the coast that day, was a humanitarian crisis. I'm grateful to our first responders, the National Guard, and the Gotham Police Department for what they did to maintain order in and outside the city, and for Mister Luthor's corporate efforts to bring that city back."

Luthor nodded. Then he looked at Lehrer.

"Saving Gotham was not about me. It wasn't about Lex Luthor, or the Batman or any of Gotham City's attendant problems—which I would like to point out are systemic issues that I hope any administration would examine closely. We just wanted to save some lives."

Lehrer said, "We move next to a question from Roy Harper, Roy where are you?"

His back to the cameras, Luthor's eyes lit up.

Roy Harper.

He knew him.

He knew all of them.

All these years. All the intelligence he spent time and money on. To learn about them and, one day, far from that first meeting with an alien aboard the _Sea Queen_ , to use that intelligence to destroy them.

So Roy Harper.

The Green Arrow's mailed fist.

He turned and locked onto him.

Roy Harper was the Red Arrow.

Or was it Speedy.

Or was it Arsenal.

Luthor couldn't remember. All these people and their costumes.

The world knew Oliver Queen was the Green Arrow; he couldn't very well show up to ask Candidate Luthor a loaded question, the subtext of which only Roy and Luthor would know, and keep close in their hearts.

Roy Harper was a nobody.

Roy stood there in Buddy Hollys and a grey hoodie, he stood there in his poor disguise shuffling from foot to foot, trying to look like some hipster. He manufactured nervousness and held the mike loose in one hand. The glasses slid down his face as he said, "We hear a lot about special interest groups, and candidates forming policy for specific demographics—seniors, the middle class, Baby Boomers—can you as a candidate promise to be a President for all people?"

Gore said Yes. Luthor didn't pay attention to the rest of his flat answer.

Bush said Yes and trailed off about prosperity. He brought it back with a, "so, yeah."

Lehrer said, "We come to Mister Luthor."

Luthor looked up at Harper. "Yes, I would be a President for all people." With that slight smile he said, "If I'm fortunate enough to become your President."

"For all people," Harper said and inflected it more. All people, you bald bastard.

Lehrer shot around in his chair.

Luthor put a hand out and kept his eyes on Harper. "No, it's alright, Jim, I want to hear every viewpoint."

"For all people," Harper said. "Gay. Straight. Black. White. Even Superman."

Luthor put on a smile that could pass for a disgusting leer and stared into Roy's eyes.

"Roy," he said and began pacing. "Thank you, that's a great question. And you're right, we do hear a lot about personal differences, identity politics, the ways in which we as a people are divided. Lived experiences dictate who we are, and I'm here to tell you, and everyone watching, don't let them take that from you. Don't let the world dictate who you are—you know best, and I'm speaking both generally and, if I may, directly, Roy. Our experiences shape us, as mine have and I'm sure yours have. All of us have rich full histories. My own is one of poverty, and rising above it. Yours, Roy, is different. The Governor's is different, the Vice President's is different. Even Jim's is different. That's right, isn't it, Jim? Mm. What's important is that we recognize the differences among us, and celebrate those. They're not lodestars for division or, to borrow a line from the Governor, partisan bickering. Our differences make us better. Stronger. As your President I'd do everything in my power to celebrate our differences and make the twenty-first century an inclusive place. After all, if we can welcome aliens to our little blue planet, then we can do anything. We have to."

Luthor stayed on him and in that moment Roy's face shifted an infinitesimal centimeter. Luthor caught it and had to stop his lip curling on national television.

The meaningless detritus of their world fell apart and Roy found himself swallowing the lump at the back of his throat but keeping a straight face. A straight face against the storm. Against the world's greatest supervillain.

Luthor smiled and bowed politely and thanked Roy.

Roy nodded.

Lehrer started wrapping up.

And Luthor already devised a way to make Oliver Queen and his little addict of a sidekick pay for this cheap stunt.

* * *

Lois.

She went to see Perry on Halloween. One week left. One week between her and the rest of the universe. And she was thinking of her father, arms over his chest, the wrinkles of his face turned down, and one of his usual pronouncements. Lois come on now it's not as bad as that.

Well.

"I can't, Perry."

He looked at her. "Can't. Or won't."

"Both," she said. "Either. I don't have any objectivity left when it comes to Luthor."

He laid his cigar in the ashtray. "Yes you do."

She let out a little scoff, somewhere between surprised and pissed off. But she stuck to her guns. "No," she said. "I don't."

"'The high road is great but sometimes you gotta get in the shit.' Who was it that told me that?"'

"Chief."

"I feel like I know her."

"Perry come on."

"No," he said and pointed at her. "Why not put your foot down a year ago when he announced?"

"I refused to report on him, Perry!"

"Everybody refused," Perry said. "I'm convinced Clark said yes because he thought it would be gentlemanly."

"He's not taking a bullet for me on this if that's what you're saying Perry."

"I'm not," Perry said. "But his reporting bleeds into your life, Lois."

"Thanks for the concern, Chief."

"You haven't been yourself lately. Have you?"

"No," she said.

"Lois. Stop treating your friends like your enemies. Told Clark that a long time ago and I'm telling you now. It's getting to you."

"I feel responsible," she said. "For him."

"No."

"What?"

"You heard me. You may have dated him in the old days but that was then and this is now."

"People don't change, Perry."

"Sure we do," he said. "But mostly it's a matter of just getting older, kid. I'd bet real money that even Lex is looking in the rearview mirror now. He's aware of how much, or little, time he has left and he's doing something about it. Makes him dangerous. And makes our job critical."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"if you really don't want to interview him, I'll take you off. If you want leave of absence until the new year I'll give you that too. But if this is just you feeling bad I think we both know that's a load of shit. You're Lois Lane. Never back down."

"Perry."

"Because you're good. And because I can see it eating you up, Lois. Now go get a coffee and get some sleep. And send me Jimmy if you would. He's got a new _Day in the Life_ to run. Oh, and one more thing. Where is that husband of yours? I left him a message but I haven't heard back."

"He said he was flying home for the weekend, going to see his parents."

Perry made a face.

Lois said, "That's what I thought too."

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	7. Under A Yellow Sun

_The Metro-Ledger_ , October 1, 2000:

For President: Lex Luthor

By George Killian

"...Mister Luthor brings a wealth of information, new knowledge, with him to this highest of offices in the Republic. Where we sense temerity and unease with Mister Bush, where we sense unrelatable policy robotics with Mister Gore, we sense resolve and an openness to ideas with Mister Luthor. One of the common criticisms levied at Mister Luthor is that he lacks the experience, most of it in foreign policy, necessary to running the government. We find this reasoning specious, and proceeding from a basic fear of change. Such fear is what Washington is founded upon, but we believe this need not be the case. We believe Mister Luthor can best be the change-maker Washington needs, and that he can do it with a relatable edge which we must admit we do not see in Mister Gore or Mister Bush. We support Alexander Luthor, with the belief that the twenty-first century, already upon us, must be welcomed for the ways in which it can enrich our lives—and the hope that Mister Luthor is the chief executive most capable of allowing us to reach that future."

* * *

Luthor.

And Sam Lane.

The inimitable General Lane, as Lois used to call him. Only he wasn't a General when Luthor knew him. Just a Major. Formerly a Captain. Formerly a private. In the early days—those beautiful old days when the company was just him and Lois in a broom closet on the top floor of the Planet, the whole world laid before him and hope in he palm of his hand—Luthor would've settled for calling him father in law. These days he was a retired General, US Army if he remembered correctly.

Not that it mattered.

He didn't care about Lane.

But he needed him. Or more precisely wanted him.

To send a message.

They were at Pebble Beach, the fairway flat and beautiful before them. Beyond, the Pacific was a portrait in stillness, the sun warm and comforting.

Under a yellow sun he felt renewed, and comfortable. He marveled at it the way he marveled daily at the Atlantic from behind the glass of his office. He supposed he felt a certain affinity for the ocean, little different from his blithe objectivist view of his city as its own achievement. He regarded both as curiosities, with distant intellectualism he had developed over the course of a lifetime. Out here in nature—out here among life, plant and human, which to him seemed more alien at times than the humans with whom he interacted on a daily basis—he wasn't sure he had words for what he was experiencing.

It felt.

Unsettling.

He breathed and imagined Pebble Beach could be so much more. A golf course felt so introductory: why not develop this and give human society something they can use, something they deserve. That hoariest of bromides, perhaps—low-income housing. He made a note of it for his victory speech. He imagined dragging Pebble Beach into the twenty-first century. California would be good for it. Golf is the lodestar of privilege and elitism, something to be tossed out and forgotten. Better, instead, to level the field. Don't separate the slums from the diamond district, build a subway between them. Give these foolish people the equal shake they all clamor for. Take Pebble Beach and rename it Lexor City or something else. Make it worthy of his name. Like the rest of the planet. A developed supercity from this spot inland and further.

Eventually the world.

"Do you golf, Lex?"

He made a face. Leaning on his driver like it was a cane, in khakis he despised, in clown shoes, in this ridiculous polo—habiliments for the unwashed masses, small people who aspire to be more than what they are—Luthor wasn't impressed. Sam was in front of him dressed in plaid finery. An amateur, a poseur, at work. But there was an earnestness to the General. Luthor began to understand where Lois got it from.

"No."

"No taste for it?"

"Mm," Luthor said. "No time."

Lane let out a single laugh. "Guess you're a busy man."

"Yeah," Luthor said. They started walking. "You sure you don't want to go back for a cart, General? I could send Mercy."

Lane waved one hand. "I'm alright, need the exercise. And you don't need to call me General."

"You'll pardon me, but it's not easy to forget the rank. It's a matter of respect."

"I'm retired, Lex."

"Then all the more reason to respect your service."

Then Lane looked at him. "My father died of liver cancer when I was thirty-one years old. You know what I told him? I thanked him for raising me, for doing a good job. I called him sir. He looked me right in the eye and said don't call me that ever again, Sammy, and then he died right there. I don't have time for sentiment anymore, Lex, and I know you don't either. So don't bullshit me. I still read the papers."

"Even the _Planet_?"

"Especially," Lane said. "She's still my little girl."

"That she is," Luthor said. "And quite tenacious, if you don't mind me saying."

"She's married to this reporter. Kent."

"I know," Luthor said. "I was at the wedding."

"Hm. Should have been you."

Luthor stared at him.

"Lois and I—"

"Were too much alike," Lane said. "She didn't like to be challenged. Remind you of anyone?"

Luthor let a smile creep in.

Lane was setting his Slazenger on the tee. Not looking at Luthor, he said, "I also heard you told Bush and Gore how it's going to be."

Luthor waited a moment.

Lane swung.

The Slazenger disappeared down the fairway.

"They want everything in little boxes," Luthor said. "No imagination."

Lane thought about it. "Maybe."

"I'm working on that."

"You didn't come out here to play golf," Lane said. "So let's have it."

"Secretary of Defense. On the condition that we win."

Lane watched the sky and still imagined his Slazenger was flying, majestic and true, for the most coveted of hole in ones. He breathed and pretended to pause time so he could maintain this feeling. The warm sun all around him, life being just the way he'd long imagined.

He caught himself frowning.

He'd have to sell the house.

Tell the wife.

Tell Lois.

—She'd.

She'd understand.

He turned to Luthor.

"Mister President."

* * *

GCN's "Man on the Street," September 12th 2000:

"Yo, I think Mister Luthor's doing a good job, okay? He comes by the youth center a couple times a week, he plays basketball with us. He's a good guy."

"My father was a LexCorp janitor from the very beginning, top floor of the _Planet_ , and he always talked about how Mister Luthor never forgot his name. That means something."

"I think he's f— nuts."

"He sit up there in his tower, he doesn't know what it is on the streets, man. He say he from Suicide Slum he balls-lying, man. Old Man Luthor to the Manor born he only interest is money and more of it."

"He gave my nephew a college scholarship—it was the craziest thing I've ever seen, we were just at Pablo's one night and my nephew, bless his pea-pickin' heart, made some remark about Superman or something and Mister Luthor was at the bar and came over and asked if Jesse studied, Jesse said yes, and Mister Luthor wrote him a check for seventy-thousand dollars right there. It was the craziest thing I've ever seen, Miss Grant."

"His charitable donations outflank Wayne and Kord by a wide margin, his defense contracts are a little suspect, his stump speeches are in the right place, but I don't know how he'd get around conflicts of interest. That said, he offers the voters something Gore and Bush can't—a third way—and I think everyone knows it."

"I'd vote for him just to see what happens."

"I think he's kind of sexy, that bald head reminds me of Yul Brynner."

"Dude, go watch Woodburn, okay? Luthor gives you a reason to vote again! F— that two party bulls— and vote for real change."

"I'm very enthusiastic about what he could do for our country, but he's not married, no kids. It must be a terribly lonely life he leads."

"I want to know what he's going to do about the Middle East, anything can happen over there and whoever wins needs to be able to have a strong hand."

"He makes my flesh crawl."

"I don't think it's of any concern to me. Politics doesn't really touch where I live, you understand."

"All you're tryin to do is run him through the muck. He doesn't beat women, or do drugs. He's a good man and he deserves a chance to lead."

* * *

Jenny.

His voice in her head.

All these years later.

Jenny.

Shall I tell you the truth of your life?

November the fifth, still about fifty out, which seemed a little weird to her, but also still a few weeks away from the snow, so yeah, not bad. She was watching the countryside pass her by from this Greyhound. Every few feet or so she'd feel the rumble underneath her, the bus rollicking over cracked and sealed asphalt on this nowhere road in the middle of bumfuck Virginia.

Wally's word. She patted one hand with the other, self-discipline, and looked at the ceiling. Discipline, Jennifer.

She swallowed the lump at the back of her throat, and closed her eyes. The seat seemed to envelope her: that matted, mass-market synthetic velour, ever so abrasive to the touch after all these years of service. She breathed. Her hands were clasped, one in the other, on a pleather handbag on her lap.

She pressed one finger down against the fake hide, feeling the contour of the barrel within.

Good. Good.

You're still in there.

That's good.

She looked at the ceiling, her eyes tracing the luggage rack rails. She pressed the hide again.

Couldn't fly with it.

Couldn't eat up valuable time in Metropolis looking for a gun store.

She had loaded it and stuck it in the purse on her way out of the house, the very last thing she did. Now here she was.

Wally's old revolver, a twenty-two, barely worth anything. But it could send a message. Or at least she hoped it could.

She remembered the stories.

Early days, a bunch of mobsters whose names she couldn't pronounce, dropping like flies out in Gotham City. Papers near home all thought it was the Bat, finally gone off the deep end.

She read that it was some mobster's mentally ill son who actually did it.

A father's love—

One by one.

She remembered seeing somewhere or reading somewhere that he did it all with a twenty-two.

He brought that city to its knees.

With a twenty-two.

She breathed.

She pressed on the hide again.

Just a few more hours.

* * *

Clark.

Under a yellow sun, floating in its encompassing warmth, he felt reborn.

Beneath him, Kansas was a broad interconnected lattice of farmland with long grey lines for roads and dots for cities. This high up it looked quiet. Peaceful. He knew once he landed it would be anything but.

He knew, for instance, that once he landed and changed into Levi's and a flannel and started walking down Main Street, Whitney's dad would see him and ask how everything was going, how's Metropolis, how's the wife, how's the job. He was always supportive, doggedly nice to everyone. Whitney and Clark never really got along—both too prideful, Clark supposed, for what they were. Kids. Kids doing their best. Trying to be something in this world that takes everything. And of course Clark, good old humble Clark, he'd merely say, thank you Mister Fordman please tell everyone I said hello, I'm going to go out to see my parents now. And Mister Fordman would slip off his knackered old Massey-Ferguson hat and hold it in gnarled arthritic hands over his heart and say, bless you Clark, your parents were saints, I miss them every day.

I do too.

He landed in the berm at the end of the drive. Ahead lay the farm. Older than time, or memory. Ma always said it was Jonathan's parents who started it all those decades before. Immigrants from Wales, by way of Ellis Island, who decided Kansas would be it for them. They settled, made babies, made this farm, made lives.

He thought of that boy in the No Man's Land.

He looked down at himself.

He was still in his Superman suit.

Anyone who would drive out this far past town these days and see him could be pretty well assured to have the view to themselves:

Not that it mattered anymore, either. The danger, he had to admit, had dropped off. Most of his major villains were already too underpowered to threaten him, Lois could handle herself, and the rest were dead. Killed in Cadmus' last great tantrum.

Maybe that's part of it, Father.

There's no challenge anymore. I caught Corben so long ago trying to sneak into the No Man's Land but it was not suspenseful. He was hiding in a shipping container in the Dixon Docks, cowering like a child in spite of all his power. Poor Winslow Schott disappeared only to turn up dead on the front steps of an orphanage in Thailand. Oswald Loomis, Maxwell Jensen. All dead.

So much darkness in this world, Father.

You sent me here to fight it.

I fear.

I fear I am not enough.

The Fortress—

Why can't I find the answers I'm looking for.

He shook his head.

He started up the lane slowly. The gravel and dirt crunching underfoot. The breeze wrapping around him like an old friend.

The house was empty. The barns were empty. Some equipment he still left out to give the illusion of use.

Of course Smallville knew the difference. Small towns always do. Hard to hide here. Easy to present the farm as this quiescent idyll, a snapshot of a life that once was.

Jonathan and Martha Kent were dead. Killed in a car crash a few years ago. Long after Clark had saved the _Constitution_. Long before this moment—it felt like dog years in some respect.

He kept the house as it was.

It's better that way. Something to remember them by. If you're not going to have someone around in your life, it's best to remember the good times.

He walked up the steps and the wood creaked under his weight. He couldn't help a smile. He laid a hand on the banister, dry wood and old paint curling off it. He ran his hand up the angle of it and felt the infinitesimal dance of the atoms within.

He kicked up the doormat with one foot and lifted the key. Such a simple hiding place, and yet…

Sometimes, he had learned over the course of a very long experience, hiding in plain sight was best.

Slid the key in the lock. It still turned as easy as ever.

He stepped in lightly, the hardwood groaning under him, and looked around. There. Between the clawfoot coffee table, and the matching end table with a bright green hurricane lamp upon it—Ma was always proud she was able to get the full set at Trostel's that day. Talked about it for years.

But she was never materialistic. It wasn't about appearances. It was about what she liked. And Martha Kent liked everything. Loved everyone. He smiled again. The davenport sat as it always did, against the far window, a long solid piece of glass that stared out at the field between two silos.

It was better that way. If you're going to go, do it side by side with someone you love.

He was standing in front of the corner curio cabinet, tucked away in the parlor's far end before you passed into the living room and the kitchen. He bent down in front of it and pulled one of the doors open. He reached in and found himself quietly pulling out the photo album on top.

Newspaper clippings.

All of them from _The Daily Planet_ :

PANIC IN THE SKY—and a picture of the crashing proto-shuttle _Constitution_.

TERROR AT SEA!—and a picture of Superman arresting Lex Luthor.

INVASION!—and a picture of Superman fighting the alien Dominators.

NIGHT OF TERROR, MORNING OF LOSS—and a photo of his ragged cape in the middle of Fifth Avenue.

WHICH ONE?—and the four reigning Supermen.

ZERO HOUR—and the Justice League fighting Hal Jordan.

He smiled and choked back the tears.

They kept everything. All these years.

He pulled out another album. A yellowed cover, white in another life, with hard cracked plastic over it. "Treasured Memories."

He sat on the davenport, but really sunk into it, and opened the album. Careful. Careful.

Their wedding invitation bulged under the plastic sleeve. A cut-out photo, blurred in that Seventies way, of Jonathan and Martha in their nuptial finest: Jonathan in a brown tuxedo with a magnificent giant bowtie. Martha in her gown, white lace over her head in a beatific cowl.

They were happy.

He breathed.

" _Clark-Kent Wedding: Mister Jacob and Rosalind Kent invite you to the wedding of their son Jonathan to Martha Clark, son of Marvin and Grace Clark of Osage, Kansas, to be held at the Grafton United Methodist Church, Smallville Kansas, at one-thirty in the afternoon. Lunch following in the church basement."_

A news clipping almost a year later, from the _Smallville Gazette_ :

"…Martha Kent, reported missing in the great blizzard last evening, has been safely located in a snowbank off County Road 125-A. She reports no injuries and is glad to be home, although she tells this writer she can't say the same for her beloved '46 Ford still stuck in that snowbank…"

Another:

"…Farm Bureau Federation proudly announces Jon Kent as its record-holding youngest president, for a two-year term. His wife Martha, photographed below, dines with him at the VFW…"

Another:

"…Martha and Jon Kent of Smallville proudly announce the birth of a young boy, Clark Joseph, born last week weighing 8 pounds, 7 ounces. Attending Doctor Hayward reports mother and baby are in fine health, although father has humorous doubts about the family's luck during heavy snowstorms…"

They had lives.

An entire existence, apart and then shared, before they drove down that road and found an infant in a crashed space capsule.

I wonder.

If they knew.

Did you know, Father?

You never know.

When you're living in times of great change, that is.

You have an idea. Everyone does. Everyone thinks they're the most important, the most famous, the hero of their own story. They think they have a good handle on things.

And then something amazing happens.

Imagine it.

Driving down that road, with the love of your life next to you.

He imagined it. They're driving down the road living one life, and in a few moments everything will change.

Any minute now.

He was outside in an instant.

In his civilian clothes.

In the middle of the cornfield, just staring at the horizon. The evening sun hid behind growing strands of grey clouds. The distant tree line. The grain elevator. He focused and saw all the way into town. The general store. The used bookstore. Ralli's Diner.

This world.

My world.

It's so beautiful, Father.

Worth cherishing in every way.

These people.

They're born here, they live their whole lives here, they raise their kids here, and then they die, and the wheel just keeps spinning.

I wish I could have it sometimes. Far away from the concerns of this Earth. Lois and I—

We could be happy.

He was at their graveside.

Jonathan and Martha Kent. Beloved parents.

It all just disappears, Father. We are here in one moment and gone in the next.

He laid one hand on the headstone and felt it sing. He smiled.

I was dead once, Father.

And I didn't see you.

I saw my Pa.

Oh Clark, he says. I knew you'd come.

Any minute now.

In the dream, Pa pulls me into the light.

I brought him back, Pa says, and Ma recounts it to Clark later. Clark is back. He is so weak, Father. And so strong. He is everything you said they are, and were, and shall be.

And I?

Here on Earth.

Under a yellow sun—

He hears the voice of a god in his mind.

"Clark. This is J'onn. It's November the fifth. As you requested, your monitor duty begins in three standard hours. Please report for duty and the cycle-meeting as soon as you are able. Thank you."

And then—

A red streak shoots into the sky.

* * *

 ** _Continued..._**


	8. Everything We Started

_"Philanthropy and Power: A Discussion"_  
Presented at the World Trade Organization, Seattle Washington, 30 November 1999. Entered into evidence before the House Select Committee on Impeachment, 20 November 2003:

EXCERPT:

Luthor: You should come to Metropolis sometime, Oliver, you might enjoy it.

Queen: No thanks; I'd rather not live in a police state.

[Laughter]

Luthor: Yes we create a safe world. Yes your freedoms are being abridged, but you know what lies on the opposite end of the security my city offers. Oblivion. And I'm not even saying that as hyperbole, Mister Queen. Crime, despair. This is not how Man was supposed to live. So you accuse me of a police state, I accuse you of not doing more. Your Starling City allows its crime rate to soar. You allow shootings. You allow these super-types to run rampant. You allow this all in the name of inclusion, and a moral high ground, and what I'm sure your Green Arrow thinks is a game of cat and mouse. And people keep dying. Team Luthor keeps my city safe. So does the Special Crimes Unit, indeed every man and woman in the Metropolitan Police Force. We make a city of opportunity, a where children don't have to fear anything. I ask you, Oliver, why haven't you.

[/END]

* * *

Lois.

She stepped out of the elevator. She walked through the lobby, past the rotating model of the Planet logo itself there in the center. Through the front doors, great gusts blowing in and around her.

Out on the street.

Down the few steps.

It was an odd feeling. She felt—

Not herself.

And yet.

A Lincoln town car, parked in the handcapped spot right there, bright black, and the fading daylight refracting off its smooth lines, and Jenner leaning against it, dressed in his same tacky blue suit, finished in gold-rim aviators and a ginger buzzcut.

"Richard."

"Offer you a ride?" Jenner said it and opened the back door for her in a single fluid move. She threw her purse in.

"What's the matter?" she said. "He tell you to be nice today?"

"Look," he said. "I just do what I'm paid to do."

"You might as well be taking out his garbage," she said, and got in. "Thanks for the ride anyway. Beats going down myself."

Then Jenner was driving. He craned his neck by half and spoke to the mirror after a moment: "Why are you the way you are. With him, I mean."

She turned and looked at him.

"No."

"What?"

"No," she said. "As in no I won't answer your condescending question, Rich."

He made a face and looked back at the road.

She looked at him. "Out of curiosity why do you ask." It wasn't a question.

He shook his head. "No reason."

The next moments passed in silence. They were quiet, each studying the other in turn. Finally she saw her opening. "Go on the record. Help me put him away."

Jenner laughed. "You've been trying for years and you got nothing. One driver's bitching is gonna tip the scale?"

"Every bit helps." Then she looked around the cabin. She ran one hand up the armrest and felt the leather smooth and cold underneath. "He doesn't bug the car?"

"Even if he did," Jenner said and did not look in the mirror. "Would it matter. You're still you."

She looked back out the window but her eyes lingered on him. She thought the whole effect of him reminded her of her father, and then entertained, in the half-second before she voided the thought, that Luthor had hired Jenner for just such a reason.

It was a straight shot down Fifth Avenue from the front entrance of the Planet building to the LexCorp plaza. Jenner swung the Lincoln in a wide stroke around the hedge and Lois glared ever so briefly at the juvenile redwood there in the center. The car jerked to a stop.

"Thanks, Rich. Don't let him get you down."

She flung the door open and stormed inside.

The lobby was new. Remodeled, more precisely, since the last time she had been here. She wondered if anything else was new. Ahead was a super-massive wall of Carrera marble and a white stone desk with a pert and motionless concierge behind it. A young blonde girl. On the desk there sat only a black PowerBook. She looked robotic, perfectly postured, hands clasped, tanned skin and a manufactured smile.

She heard the faint echo of background music, faint to the ear, an idea of class—Chopin she remembered. His favorite.

She forced her face blank. No expression. Neither her usual cocksure smirk nor a downward curl of fear. That would just give him too much now wouldn't it.

Aside from the plastic girl pretending to be something she wasn't there was precious little else in the lobby. To one side and far behind the Carrera wall there was an atrium, also new to her; she watched people come and go in it, a couple on a park bench by a ginkgo tree, and she did not break stride.

She kept her eyes on the concierge, and the concierge in turn seemed to finally lock on to her. In the slower time of her approach she opened her ears.

The brisk rhythmic clicking of her heels on the marble. The sound they made bouncing off the walls and the glass. The hum of the city behind her. Machine sounds to her left, power drills, jackhammers, the incessant beeps of a reversing Bobcat—she noticed a wall of drop-cloths and a sign she couldn't make out from here. Even so, it all seemed pretty obvious.

He was building a subway station. Probably run it up to the Slum and pass it off as a virtue signal. Maybe connecting to his roots.

Still she felt the lobby, at least insofar as she felt nothing. No ambient heat around her from the lack of human bodies, no chill either from the desolation.

Yes, that was the word.

The plastic concierge stood and her face did not change, even as she stumbled over the words: "Miss Lane?"

"Is he here?"

"Yes," she said.

"Good," Lois said and made for the elevators. "Tell him the bitch is back."

The doors opened.

She stepped in.

The floor bank above her tessellated into words: Welcome, Miss Lane.

She gave a little salute.

The walls of the elevator were swedish green marble with gold overlays. The cabin lurched up ever so slightly.

She looked away. Down at the floor, at her heels, but really at nothing.

She looked back at one panel, and stared at it for a long moment. Something—

This tower's been ransacked more than the law allows, he's had to rebuild so much of it, not to mention cover it all in lead like a crazy person because he's convinced Clark—

Crazy was right. She impressed herself there and made a matter of fact nod. He's an old man. A sick man. A paranoiac and a despot. He thinks he runs things. He's always thought that. He thinks he owns people. He thinks the laws don't apply.

He can do whatever he wants. The only thing that keeps him from cracking the planet in half—

She looked up at the ceiling, dark gold plates with four inset lights in a square.

Something.

All these years. All these remodels.

The elevators used to be anodized steel for walls and red digital displays, his ideas, cold and sterile.

And his voice in her memory: hit people in the face with what they want. They're simple, Lois, not like us. They only need to be shown the way.

Not a bit of design from the original tower.

He didn't just rebuild after supervillain pissing contests. He reworked the whole thing. He removed his old designs. And hers.

Son of a bitch.

She breathed.

She felt the elevator slow.

Gold panels that were doors slid open without a sound and opened into a stark white anteroom, a white shelf of a desk on one side and Teschmacher, loyal, quiet Teschmacher sitting there clacking away on her PowerBook.

Lois had almost forgotten about her.

Eve tried to say—

"Yeah, save it," Lois said and kept walking.

Through the great glass double doors open, the ones with his initials etched in a chic Deco style.

Their eyes met.

They knew each other.

They were friends and enemies. Old adversaries. Close in a way that so few humans were. Certainly closer to each other than they cared to admit. Years previous, ancient history really, they were lovers and best friends. After college and her first beat, hanging around in the stairwell of the Daily Star asking Taylor for scraps, she met him. Or he met her. Memory blurs with age, and as she reminisced she found herself remembering not specifics, but feelings. Moments. Emotions.

Pain. Sadness. And something else besides—

So here they were.

She walked up to his desk and plopped down in one of the seats, rich green velour and a flat green rug underneath. Ahead was the desk, dark cherry and a black PowerBook upon it, and a slim chrome stalk for a lamp. And him.

Always Lex to her. Sometimes Luthor. If she was pissed. But usually just—

"You."

He smiled that public smile and said, "It's nice to see you, too. Like what I've done with the place?"

"Doesn't look quite like a sick joke anymore."

"I believe some of the original designs were yours, too, were they not?"

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter."

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "But it does. Don't initiate a conversation unless you want to finish it, Lois, and don't stand there pretending it doesn't grate your every nerve to see how I've changed the building without you. When was the last time you were actually in here?"

"Years ago. You were dying."

"Oh yes," he said and opened his hands. "Cadmus, you know, was a mistake."

"I'm sure they were," she said. "Almost as much of a mistake as me not reporting your illegal arms deals, or illegal cloning experiments, illegal real estate schemes—how many times can I use the word illegal? Oh, and how could I forget the bribes or the corruption or the straight up murders—not to mention the terrorists on the Sea Queen."

"Ancient history," he said and a smile crept onto his face.

"How many Cadmus scientists are you still funding, Lex?"

He just smiled and shook his head. "I miss you."

"Oh bite me."

He leaned back in his chair. Drummed idly on the armrest and stared right into her eyes. "Ride down was good?"

"Richard—"

"Is a loyal dog," he said.

She relaxed into the chair but only just. "Don't you worry that one day he'll get tired. Maybe find a journalist and start talking."

He did not move and in that moment their eyes locked and time stopped and Lois was reacquainted with one of his basic features: a cold dead stare that made your flesh crawl.

"He'd have to find a good one, wouldn't he."

She rolled her eyes.

He made a sound. "Everything I built. Everything we started. And you still give me no credit."

"I give you credit for trying," she said. "But you could be so much more."

Then he was standing, and turning, and staring out the window. Beyond it the day was fading. The sun bathed Metropolis in warm pastels. She looked around. He was still staring out the window.

"Customarily," he said. "When we meet there's no small amount of screaming. So I'd like to know what you're up to, Miss Lane."

He turned and looked at her. His eyes glowed in the dusk.

"I wanted to tell you I'll no longer be reporting on you from the City Desk."

"Decided to join the press pool have you? I'll tell Cat you said hello."

"No," she said and cleared her throat. "I won't be reporting on you at all anymore. However much it kills me. Not the campaign. Not your military contracts. Not even the Easter Egg Hunt in the plaza."

"You started that tradition," he said. "Long ago."

She looked at him and was silent.

For time uncounted.

Finally she said, "are you for real? With this. The campaign, winning, actually doing something with your miserable life. You'd take a massive pay cut, you'd have to give a shit about your fellow man—something I know you're physically incapable of doing. Not to mention you'd have to stop, oh I dunno, selling weapons to Bialyan separatists."

He looked at her. "You and your sources."

"Keeps me honest," she said.

He went back to the window. Back to surveying the city.

She waited.

"I will win, Lois."

From nowhere she said, "No you won't."

"I already have."

He looked at her.

A moment passed.

"I will be President. I've seen to it. And so has Brainiac. I will take this planet into the twenty-first century whether it likes it or not and if I have to kill you, your husband, and five billion people to do it I will. Because that's what I do. Because the planet deserve deserves Lex Luthor. The hard choice, and the only choice. You used to understand that. So here's what's going to happen. You will go back to the _Planet_ and you'll tell Perry that your jitters are just that and that you want to stay on as campaign correspondent. Because if you don't...I swear to god. I will never. Ever. Forget. Say you understand."

She clenched her fists, her jaw, her whole body, and stared him right in his eyes, brilliant green in the gloom.

"Lois."

"I understand."

"Good. Eve will see you out."

She was at the doors again, numb from the conversation before she heard his voice again.

"Lois."

She turned. He was standing behind his desk now, a shadow in the gloom.

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"All these years," he said. "Look at us now. All your articles. All those years of struggles and what did they achieve. Why do you persist?"

She looked him in the eyes, those brilliant greens, and felt them in turn studying her. The shadow before the window did not move.

She thought of Clark.

What's the S stand for—

Long ago.

It's not an S—

She smiled.

On my world it means—

"I hope," she said.

"For what," he said.

"For things to get better."

He made a face.

And she was gone.

* * *

Years ago.

Years ago Lana was young. Like they all were. Young and naive, and Clark somehow preeminent among them. The world hadn't seemed to beat down on him the way it did others. Pete always felt inadequate around others. Whitney also felt like he had to overcompensate, first with football, then as he aged with running the farm. It was a chip he carried on his shoulder. And there was Lana. The shrinking violet: she felt it in her heart even though she knew it was an oversimplification.

Not that she supposed it mattered. She told herself it didn't. That what people thought of her didn't matter.

They always say that, you silly corndog. Everyone cares and everyone judges and we just keep going.

She remembered calling Mrs Kent. "Oh Missus Kent, it's Lana, I was just wondering if by chance Clark was still around." "I'm sorry, Lana, he left for the train station early this morning. If you hurry you might catch him."

And hurry she did. She hung up the phone and yelled up the stairs—MOMILLBEBACKIGOTTAGOSEECLARK—and she was out the door, down the steps, bam, lickety-split. Whitney lived a half block down and she ran there first. "Whit, can I borrow your truck?" "Yeah no, Lana, why?" "I wanna see Clark before he leaves, it would mean a lot and he's already at the station. Do you think you could drive me down, I'll buy you a bite." "…Okay."

And they were off. Whitney's Custom Deluxe, used to be his dad's, colored shit-brown and the rust spots in the wheel-wells just made it all look worse. The seat was a single bench and she did her level best to be cool with it as they rumbled though town, the Custom's throaty exhaust echoing off the pavers. She looked at him. "Thank you, Whitney."

"Yeah yeah."

"No I mean it." She reached her hand out and patted his, clamped on the shifter. "It means a lot."

He glanced down at her hand on his, frowned, looked back at the road. "Here."

He turned the Custom Deluxe into the station parking lot, in those days still gravel with cement blockades on either end of the expanse. She opened the door as the truck came to a stop. "Do you want me to wait, or…"

She looked at the building, and at Whitney. "I'll meet you at Ralli's? Like, half an hour?"

"Okay," he said and made a nervous smile.

She ambled out, and marched into the building, quick apace. Right through the ticket area, through the waiting area, all empty this late in the day, and walked right out back. You could do that in the old days.

He was sitting on a bench, up against the building at the far end of the platform. Perfect posture as always, a hard side suitcase with a big ST LOUIS sticker across the side at a jaunty angle. He was wearing a houndstooth that looked about two sizes too big.

She started to walk towards him. Stuck up her hand and waved and it was so feeble. "Hey."

He looked. "Lana!"

He got up and they shared a hug.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I mean, is everything okay?"

"Yeah," she said. Looked away and smiled and chuckled and wiped a string of hair from her face. "Yeah. Uh. Can we—"

"Sure—"

"Thanks—"

They sat. She tucked her legs neatly under the bench, her skirt flowed out smartly, she was always very put together like that, never give anything away, Mom said, they're like orcs you know.

Clark was different. Even Whitney was different.

Whitney—

"Um," she said.

He was looking right at her. Wrapped on any word. If only she could say them. She breathed and looked him in the eye.

"Clark."

He smiled and said, "Lana."

She started shaking her head slowly, working up the courage for some invisible—

"I'm in love with you."

She was looking at the ground. At this random half circle of pebbles there on the edge of the platform. She said it and her eyes grew wide and she looked at him.

"You—"

"I love you. And I know it's not like we can do anything about it, Clark, it's not even sane, I just needed to hear myself say it. It was like a moment of strength, right?"

"Lana."

"And so yeah, there it is, Clark. I just needed to say it." She looked at him and chuckled, a cackle that tickled the back of her throat. She thumbed towards the terminal. "I should go."

"Lana," he said. "Come on."

She breathed. Her whole body kind of rose and fell.

He said, "I know."

"You—?"

He nodded and gave a sheepish face. "I can tell. But, you know."

"You're leaving," she said. "For Metropolis."

"Yeah," he said and it was hardly a whisper.

"You don't sound too excited."

"I don't know," he said and looked ahead. On the other side of the tracks was a row of maple trees, orange and wilting in the fall chill. "Maybe?"

"Maybe?"

"I think maybe it might not be the right choice," he said. And then he looked at her again. "But I think I have to try."

She was silent. Her mouth hung open a little.

He reached into his houndstooth and pulled out a beat-up envelope with his own name on it. His name in her handwriting.

"Oh my god, you kept that."

"Was I not supposed to?"

She covered half her face. "No. I dunno. I just wanted to—"

"Tell me how you feel."

She breathed. "Yeah."

"It was very nice letter, Lana," he said. "I don't mind telling you I got a little emotional. I wanted to tell you I'll carry it with me always."

She elbowed him and they shared a laugh. "Shush."

"No, I'm serious."

"Pfft. It was—it's nothing, Clark, it's—"

She bit her lip and looked away. Down the track she heard a distant whistle.

He pulled her into a hug.

She whispered into his chest. "Don't forget about me."

"Never."

She looked up at him.

"Whitney's parked down the street," Clark said, nodding towards the building. "He's waiting for you. He's a good guy. If you and Pete aren't meant to be I hope Whitney can give you what you're looking for."

"Yeah."

"I love you," he said.

"I love you, too."

"I have to go."

"I know," she said. She laughed and looked away and waved a hand, waved away tears she knew were coming. "Go. Go be you. You were...always meant for more than Smallville."

He looked down. "Are you sure about that?"

She touched his chin and brought him back up. He was taller than her so the effect was a little ruined. Still—

"As sure as I am about anything," she said and touched his face. "The world needs you."

He smiled.

"I love you, Lana. And I'll see you real soon, okay?"

He kissed her forehead. And then—

A cool breeze swept the platform.

* * *

 _ **Continued…**_


	9. November 5th, 2000

"Truth to Power," by Paul Gustavson:

 _The Metropolis Post_ , November 5 2000:

"...Candidate Luthor cuts a stylish figure behind a cherry desk, in a darkly modern office he's recently remodeled, in a jet-Black suit, nothing too extravagant. He may come from Metropolis' famous progressive history but he presents conservatively, and this is the central contradiction of his life. The future and the past all together. He tells me he has fifty-two identical suits in his wardrobe, all Brooks Brothers, fifty-two identical white shirts—spread-collar, French-cuffed—the only thing he varies on are his choice of neckties. Today it's a deep purple Hilfiger in a four-in-hand. I ask him about the elephant in the room—superheroes—and what role they can or should have in influencing policy. He tells me he's interested in working with them, especially his old frenemy Superman, to confront and solve the issues plaguing our world. A direct quote. I ask him if I should take him at his word, and he tells me: 'What have you got to lose, Paul?'..."

* * *

Clark.

That was the name they gave him. When they found him. Jonathan and Martha Kent. His given name had been Martha's surname going back generations, nearly to the founding of Kansas, or so she tells him when he is young and cannot sleep. When he fakes falling asleep after her Kansas stories, and he lays there restless in bed, his legs twittering under the covers, his mind racing with a million thoughts, a million dreams, and all of them about the future, the horizon.

He lays there and does not sleep, but he imagines things. He knows he is different and has some kind of power. He knows that if the world finds out about these powers, bad men will come and take Ma and Pa and maybe him too, and they'll make him a lab rat. He'll become a conspiracy, like Lana's dad talks about sometimes.

He is ten years old in these days, and he knows he is different. He knows something will change, and soon, but he doesn't know when.

And here, flying up into space on his own power, Clark Kent, Kal-El of Krypton, the immigrant from the stars, at the peak of his powers and living at the dawn of a critical moment in the history of his adopted world—

He knew something was about to change.

He thought maybe he knew when. Today was Sunday, the fifth of November in their year 2000.

He stopped himself. Not their year. My year. I live here too.

Father.

I share their tribulations.

I'm one of them.

It's why you sent me here.

But I did not get the answers I truly sought from the Fortress. I barely got them from Kansas. Perhaps there are no answers. The world just spins.

Father—

Clark.

Joseph.

Kent.

That was the name they gave him.

When they didn't have to.

So here he was. Flying up into space on his own power no less. Customarily he used a spacesuit from STAR Labs, or a shuttle pod, also from STAR. But lately.

He told himself he needed to feel it.

What he felt was nothing at all.

The blue noise of the Earth fell away behind him. The radio chatter of six billion souls withered away. The electromagnetic beauty of the planet faded.

And he told himself he felt cold, but he knew that wasn't accurate either.

He felt nothing.

Eventually, he was free of the Earth.

In space.

Approaching the moon.

And thinking of Jor-El.

They're a brave people, Father. You said it yourself. They wish to be.

They flew to their moon and landed men successfully upon it with technology our world surpassed a million years ago, Father.

They are brave.

They are wise.

I have seen their true face. There are those among them who are venal, corrupt, and truly remorseless. But there is also grace.

There are heroes here. And—

Good people.

Men of good heart live on this planet, Father. It is the privilege of great men to watch over them.

That is my mission. It's why you sent me here.

It is why this League exists.

In the distance, the Moon grew larger until at last it was his whole view. And nestled deep within it, near a Sea of Tranquillity where Armstrong staked a claim for humankind, there it was.

A Watchtower on the world.

And within—

The hangar bay doors opened slowly, on command.

Once he was in, hidden speakers welcomed him. He landed.

It all seemed so perfunctory.

And walked up to the Observation Deck which they had all come to colloquialize as The Dome. In the highest part of the central spire, it stood alone: cold steel walls that were laced with alien metals from five worlds and one dimension and a single platform that stretched up to a forcefield which beheld the Earth itself.

This beautiful world.

He gazed upon it with a face that betrayed no emotion. He had been here—like this—before. It seemed only once, though. All the other days...they seemed so normal.

The seas, he remembered, are sapphires. The fields and forests emeralds. The Himalayas gleam like diamonds. This strange blue world to which my father sent me.

Pa.

I…

I miss you.

He felt them enter. One by one.

His friends.

Diana. The Wonder Woman. Champion of the Amazons, warrior princess of that wise and ancient society. Sworn to defend the world. Defend it against all sense and evidence to the contrary. Diana, he once told her, they are worth more than you know.

J'onn. The last of the Martians, another hidden society. An entire species wiped out—he sympathised—leaving the one whose named best translated to J'onn J'onzz among them. Eventually he'd found his way to Earth and masqueraded as a human before settling on his truest self. He dedicated his future to helping this wayward planet. Clark admired that.

Wally. The adventurer. In another life he was the junior sidekick of a man named Barry Allen, who had died saving the universe from multiversal annihilation. Wally grew up after that, and became The Flash in Barry's image. And yet, Superman remarked, how amazing to see him grow out of Barry's shadow and become his own man.

Kyle. This one was tougher. Kyle Rayner was the Green Lantern, and the last of their kind. A band of intergalactic policemen, watchers on their worlds, and they had been all wiped out—their Corps, their history, their awe and splendor—by one of their own. One of Earth's own. Hal Jordan had gone mad with grief, and killed every last one of them. And yet. Here was Kyle, carrying their torch.

Arthur. The King of Atlantis. Yet another hidden society. Arthur was so like Clark: a child of two worlds, with a foot in neither. A man with everything and nothing. Atlantis scorned him for genetic difference, not to mention dispositions of personality, and he scorned their atavistic ways in return. Superman thought perhaps Arthur had, or had found, a home with this League. But while they spoke often and were civil, he felt no small distance. Arthur was a man guarded in his feelings. Superman respected that, too.

And Bruce. The shadow.

They stood in an amorphous grouping in the Dome. Far in the distance was the lunar surface and the Earth beyond. Superman stood on the highest platform and shared Aldrin's view of the Earth.

So far. So small.

Lex.

Look at it.

They had already begun a conversation. He made himself pay attention.

Diana was already opinionated: "Does he know who we are?"

Wally was pacing: "I don't see the point to that. I'm more powerful than him—"

"That's what he's counting on," Superman said.

Wally made a face. "How do you mean?"

Superman turned around and looked at Wally. The ambient light in the Dome curled around him in a dim halo. He said only, "Luthor's actions as President would affect us all."

"It doesn't matter," Diana said. "Any one of us are capable of handling him, if the situation calls for it."

Superman looked at her. It surprised him. "What?"

Wally said, "I think she means he can't exactly threaten us."

"Whatever happens happens," she said. "We don't need his support."

"I feel like we need the people," Kyle said. "And we would be better with the government in our corner."

"And," J'onn said. "If Luthor is the government?"

"He cannot maintain control without the bureaucracy," Diana said. "Your government is bigger than any one man."

"Tell him that," Wally said.

"There is something else," Arthur said, leaning on the wall away from them, close to the Batman, and staring idly at his hook.

Diana looked at him. "Oh?"

"He is making overtures to Atlantis," Arthur said and felt the uncertainty in his voice. And when he registered it for what it was he cleared his throat and created resolve. "I thought you all should know."

"Before taking office?" Kyle asked. He looked at Superman. "Isn't that illegal? Or something?"

"He wants to make a new alliance," Arthur said. "He believes the old partnerships are a value loss. His words."

"You've spoken to him," Superman said.

"Yes."

Kyle rolled his eyes.

Wally said, "Well that's ominous as hell."

"Yes. We should all be concerned."

Diana stuck to her guns. "He's just a man. He cannot harm us."

"Men," the Manhunter said. "Have committed the worst atrocities and we know it."

Superman began pacing. He said, "Luthor can open the floodgates to a host of anti-superhuman sentiment. He can make our lives more difficult. People love the JLA now but it can always change. He already commands a stunning PR team. Trust me, I'm in the press pools."

"Sure," Wally said. "He's spent his life doing that. I read Gustavson's puff piece this morning. Clark, what the hell's going on in your town."

Superman looked at him. And the rest of the group. He said, "None of you know him as I do. He's cultivated an image for years as a benevolent businessman but it's the furthest thing from the truth."

"We saw the Final Night," Kyle said. "We know."

"Where to start," Superman said. "Arms deals. Wire fraud. RICO. That's the little stuff. He's destabilized governments, set up and toppled dictators in Qurac, Bialya, Kasnia. He created Metallo, and Bizarro. He's engaged in illegal cloning experiments and unsanctioned military activities on American soil. He's killed people. Children. Children. I don't know what else to say."

"Jesus," Kyle said. "I thought he was like just Gates or something, crazy billionaire, crazy ideas."

"Clark," Wally said. "You have to tell people."

"I've tried," Superman said. "Lois and I have file cabinets on it all. LexCorp's lawyers have gagged any of our work from ever seeing print."

"Leak it," Wally said. "Linda could—"

"No," J'onn said. "That would set off a war we are not prepared to win."

"Or fight in the first place," Arthur said.

"He is pure evil," Diana said. "And must be fought."

Superman looked at her. And looked away.

"Kal?" And her warm hand on his shoulder—

And he pulled away.

He said, "Lois and I have been researching this. My contacts in the tech industries say he's months, maybe years, from developing a meta-gene sensor. He can find opposition and end it. Science would be only slightly less difficult for him than demagoguery."

"Jesus."

"Sure," Kyle said. "Not to mention all the other completely overpowered super-people in the world, all of whom we've beaten regularly and all of whom are waiting for the chance to get back at us. Oh and I'm just sure he has all these assholes on speed-dial."

Everyone looked at each other.

"Oh my god he does."

Wally shook his head. "What are we talking about here, guys?"

"Is it really so surprising," J'onn said. "That the most powerful man in the free world should be a figure of controversy?"

Arthur made a face. "He hasn't won yet."

Diana slammed one hand into an open fist. "We should be prepared."

"To do what?" Wally asked. "Storm the White House? Make him fix things we don't like just because we say so?"

"Not a great look, guys."

"He is a servant of the people—"

"We serve the People, as well—"

"It's not even Election Day—"

"He sounds like a fucking supervillain."

"Language."

"Sorry."

The Martian spoke: "If he does not fulfil his oath of office he should be remov—"

"That's enough."

The voice was thunder in the Dome. Powerful, forceful, but not a storm. Respectful and restrained. But authoritative. It was Superman.

He said, "This is dangerous, reckless thinking. Stop this now, before it reaches a logical conclusion."

Diana stalked closer and stared him in the eyes. "You agree that he should be removed?"

"No. I believe in the American people doing the right thing."

She was almost sneering. "What is the right thing, Kal?"

Kyle piped up: "Not voting for the crazy man to begin with?"

Superman stayed on Diana: "What?"

"I asked what the right thing was."

"No," he said. Looked at her. "You called me Kal. That's not my name."

"Yes it is. It is the name of your truest self."

Superman looked at her. "My name is Clark."

Silence.

"Well," Wally said. "If he wins."

"If he wins," Clark said. "We do our jobs. The world will still need the Justice League, and the Justice League will still need all of you."

"And the man?"

"We hope he's amenable too."

Arthur breathed, a loud sigh, and looked at the ceiling. He said, "How do you know?"

J'onn was pacing. "You never know, Arthur."

Arthur looked at him.

J'onn looked right back.

"You hope," J'onn said.

Kyle looked over at the shadow in the corner. "You've been very quiet."

The Batman regarded Kyle evenly, and his posture, what little he showed of his face, belied nothing. He looked at Kyle head-on. "When the time is right, we'll take Luthor down."

* * *

Jenny.

The bar was halfway between nowhere and everywhere, tucked in a forgotten part of Suicide Slum, rutted cobblestones for a street, and the facade of the place was bright green paint peeling in great strands. She stalked up toward it and clutched her purse under one arm. Wrapped cold, gnarled fingers around the handle and pulled and the door opened too easily, almost took her away with it. She was expecting, she guessed, a heavier affair.

But she rolled with it. Stepped in from the windy street and pulled it shut behind her. She felt hot instantly, someone had cranked the thermo. In the next few seconds, which seemed to stretch at an eternity, she cased the whole place. A bar in the center in the shape of a horseshoe, and facing the back wall. And there, an empty stage. Well. Not quite. A guy and a girl moving some audio equipment around, eyeing the jukebox, burbling out an old Julee Cruise song, and wondering between themselves if they could dolly it off the stage. She thought maybe it was band night. She looked at the bar.

Six in the evening on a Sunday and she pretty much had the sight to herself. Except for the bartender and the jukebox couple, and of course Jenny herself, there was only one other person in the whole place.

A kid, really.

Skinny, probably ninety pounds soaking wet, in a black tee shirt and jeans, perched on the edge of the bar and hunched over an open trapper keeper, a legal pad on one side, a textbook she didn't recognize on the other side, and his spindly hand clasped around a pencil. He looked young, with a face square and perfect. His nose was straight, a single line down his face from God's brush, his eyes were deep brown. They glanced up from his homework every few minutes and he was not scared, but curious, studying her in turn. His hair was jet-black, messy, but swept forward in the idea of a pompadour.

The bartender, six nine if he was an inch, and arms of straight muscle, leaned in front of her. "Whaddayahave?"

Jenny looked him and said, "Uh, gin and tonic?"

He nodded and turned around.

She looked back at the kid.

He looked up from his homework.

Smiled.

She smiled back.

He said, "I'm Tim."

She looked at him. "Jenny."

"Hi."

"Hi."

He went back to his homework.

The bartender came back. "Gin and tonic."

She took it and gave him a minor smile, and he was gone.

She looked at the drink.

She'd never had a drink in her life.

What you did to me, Luthor.

Lex.

Luthor.

That fucking name.

She put the drink on the bar. Ran her hands over her face and breathed.

"Are you okay?"

She looked down at the bar. Over at Tim.

"Uh. Yeah."

He looked around. Back at her. "Are you sure?"

She ran the straw around the curvature of the glass.

"Where are you from?"

She looked at him. "Uh, Kansas."

"Oh cool, like Topeka? I had a buddy that lived in Osage—"

"Lawrence," she said. "Kinda outside it, in this little development." It was a lie she'd concocted twenty minutes into the bus ride.

A moment passed.

She said, "How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

She scoffed. "What the hell are you doing in a bar?"

He shrugged. "My parents aren't around. Bibbo lets me do my homework here sometimes. It's nice, and it's quiet until like seven when the townies roll in."

She took a big drink and put it back down. The gin danced in her mouth, and she swallowed it fast. Breathed and closed her eyes. She shook her head and said behind a cute smile, "That's wild."

"I dunno," he said. "It's peaceful. School is whatever, you know. But it's nice to sit here where no one needs me for a few hours and just do my German homework."

"That does sound nice."

She thought—lamented—her own life. A life in the service industry. On your feet, ten, twelve hours a day. Go here go there, rush rush, do what they ask you to do, be where they need you to be, for a miserable wage. A miserable wage that never covered the small-ass house she had with Wally. A bedroom and a half, crunched in on two sides. One of the last arguments with him—

We don't even have a yard, Wally, what if—

What if what, Jen?

What if one day we have kids.

He stops there and he looks at her and says I thought you never wanted them. She says maybe I do but I don't want them here. Jesus, Wally, we're scraping by. The neighborhood is a demilitarized zone. Who wants a kid in a place like this? And then he says we can get out we can move. And she says we can't. We can't just move around willy-nilly, we're not those people and the world doesn't just let you do that. We're stuck Wally.

We're stuck, he says. Or you're stuck. And that tears it, the screaming starts. It starts because of insecurity and it doesn't end, it'll never end, she just grabs her things and leaves.

She comes back that night, after sulking at the diner, the fucking diner of all places, the place where Lex Luthor showed her a future and took it from her, and it's then that she grabs her things and his gun and leaves. And she doesn't even wake him to tell him, she just leaves and he can file the missing persons report all he wants. She is so tired and so beyond caring.

"I'm sorry," she said and looked Tim in his eyes, those deep brown eyes and how they seemed to glow even in this dank hole.

"It's okay," Tim said. "I can tell something's bothering you. I know we just met but if you need to talk about it, I'm told I'm a pretty good listener."

"Well spoken, too," she said.

"Private school," he said. He held up his hands in a meek defense. "Makes you a cut above, or so I hear."

"It was a compliment," she said.

"I accept your compliment," he said and smiled.

A moment passed. She took another long drink of the gin and tonic and felt it burn going down. So this is what everyone's talking about.

"Jenny," he said. "Can I make an observation?"

"Sure."

"You're worried you're gonna get mugged? We don't get those here, Jenny, I mean guess why, right. They spend their time on bigger stuff. Like someone tried to rob a bank last week and when he went to leave Superman had his getaway car already crunched up there outside Citizens National."

"That's wild," she said. "Nuh-uh."

Tim nodded. "Yep. But like my thing is, you're here for something else. I dunno. I can feel it."

She started shaking her head. Drank again.

"Can I ask why you're shaking your head?"

She looked up and said sorry.

"I dunno," he said. "I find you—I dunno, I find you supremely interesting. But I'm right. Aren't I. You walked in that door and kinda sniffed the place. You felt everything like you wanted to remember it. I don't think you're FBI because FBI agents don't typically wear big heavy cable-knit sweaters and a turquoise smock underneath."

She looked at him.

"Why do you wanna know so much about me, Tim?"

He looked at her. "It's about Luthor, isn't it. The reason you came. Not just the election but him specifically."

She was running her finger along the rim of the glass. "Yeah. I don't know what's going to happen."

"I don't think anyone does. But I feel like you want to be here. Be part of something."

"That transparent?"

"Eh," he said. "Kind of a psychic."

She chuckled.

He laughed and looked down. "I shouldn't joke. I guess I want to be part of something too. I was thinking about going down to the plaza on Tuesday, wait for the returns, you know?"

She glanced up from her drink. "Yeah maybe. Maybe."

"It would be nice to see a familiar face. Sometimes the city gets me, you know. I live out in the suburbs. It's crazy, Jenny, you get over the bridge and how fast it all becomes farms and shit."

"You grew up on the farm?"

"Yeah kinda," he said and looked away. "Parents worked. I hung at my grandparents a lot. Grandpa had dairy cows."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

She said, "Me too," and smiled. "My grandfather helped build our church. You know, single room, middle of a cornfield. They carved his name on the cornerstone."

"I'm sorry," Tim said. "He must have been very special to you."

She reached out and patted Tim's hand. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Bibbo was there again with another gin and tonic. She smiled and took it in both hands, and drank slow, savoring it.

Then her purse buzzed in her lap. She set the drink down and fished her mobile out with one single move.

"My room is ready," she said. "I've got to go."

"Oh," he said. "Sure thing."

She threw a twenty on the bar. It was the most she'd spent on any drink of any kind in years.

"It was nice talking to you, Tim."

"You too," he said. "I hope you enjoy your stay."

He watched her slide off the stool, gather her purse close and bundle her sweater up. She smiled one last time at him and walked lithely away from the bar, around the corner and down the ramp to the front door. She pushed it open gingerly, politely, all the adverbs. Then she was out on the street and gone.

He breathed.

Made a face.

And pulled his cell from under his German book. He already had a text.

It was—

 **Conner:**  
 _Metropolis Plaza Hotel, 4star AAA Rating on a wait service salary, maybe she's saving up?_

He texted back:  
 _Smart thinking dude, good job._

 **Conner:**  
 _I learned it from watching you lol. I'm here all night can you bring pizza or something?_

He texted:  
 _Big Belly Burger?_

 **Conner:**  
 _Ew no. Bring me Sundollers or I get to hit you in the nuts with a wiffleball bat lol_

Tim rolled his eyes, texted okay, and closed it.

He held the phone in his hand a minute longer and then flipped it back open.

Dialled.

"Yes?"

"It's me."

"Did you get her?"

"Yessum."

"Did she say anything?"

"Uh, definitely maybe."

"Tim—"

"Well, I thought I'd go for an easy approach rather than asking her if she planned to shoot the future President."

"He hasn't won yet."

"Ah," Tim said and it was a single chortle. "Even you said 'yet.'"

"She's traumatised and wants to retaliate. An attempt on his life could create the crisis he needs to win."

Tim waited. "Do you hear yourself sometimes?"

"Tim."

"Look, Bart and Conner are in town too, and we're all taking this very seriously, okay, Bruce? Conner's watching the hotel, Bart's covering her walk back, and I'm headed there now to recap. Don't worry. You worry too much."

"I have faith in you. It's Luthor that concerns me."

"I know. I'll give you hourly reports."

"No need. I'm on the moon, then I've got an appointment."

"Selina? Or something less interesting?"

"Or something."

"Oh."

"Tell the boys…"

"Yes?"

"Tell them I said thank you."

Tim smiled and said, "Yeah, yeah."

* * *

Jesse.

He couldn't be upset. He guessed so anyway. Maybe he was just tired. The barista had one of those manufactured smiles, the one so twisted and so wide you could just tell she was faking it.

"What can I get for you?"

"Uh, iced coffee?"

She looked at him. "We have like an iced mocha?"

He looked around. "Uh."

"Yeah."

"Can I just get like a regular Earl Grey?"

"Uh, sure. What size."

He fished his wallet out of his pocket. "So large God himself couldn't finish it."

She smiled and said okay, and he threw a fiver on the counter. Moved down the line. It was nice coming here this late in the day. The assholes and hipsters cleared out: he told himself he could get used to having the sight to himself. Pike Place and the fish market, and split between the buildings a striated grey sky, rain incoming, a bustling street, people coming and going and he himself sitting here where no one needed or wanted him, at least for the moment. It was nice.

"Sir?"

He looked at the pickup counter and the barista. She said, "what's the name?"

"Jesse."

"E on the end?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean unless you want a fake name?"

The barista laughed. "People give me, like, Batman all the time, it's a little ridiculous."

"I bet."

She handed the cup over and said, "Have a good one."

"Thanks you too."

He took it and scoped a place at the counter near the front of the store. He sat and relaxed. Drank once. Twice. Leaned back and watched the street.

In a minute he'd have to go back to King Street and catch the bus.

His pocket vibrated and he made a face. Plucked his mobile out, one of those small Motorolas in those days, only good for playing snake and texting lewd messages to your buddies. He used it for both.

"Yello."

"It's me."

"Oh hi," he said and smiled a little. "How are you?"

"I'm doing very well, thank you, and you? How's Kyle?"

"Oh he's good, he's fine, thanks. He stayed home."

"Home?"

"Yeah! I disappeared to Seattle for a minute. The greyhound was like ten bucks, I couldn't resist. You guys have Starbucks in Metropolis?"

"No."

"Well, it's pretty great, let me tell you."

"You seem very happy. What's going right in your life, Jesse?"

"I mean, Kyle's a big part of it. He's a cool kid. School's going well. Family's family but what are you gonna do."

"Family is important."

"Yeah," Jesse said and made a face. "You have one?"

"Not anymore."

"I'm jealous."

"Are you?"

"A little. It's whatever. We've talked about it."

"We sure have."

"So what's up," Jesse said. "What time is it there?"

"Six at night."

"Big day Tuesday, right?"

"Yes."

"Would it be premature to offer my congratulations?"

"Not at all. Thank you. It's partially to your credit as well."

"Meh. I just do what you tell me."

"I do pay you, you know."

"I know," Jesse said and chuckled. "I'm sorry I'm acting goofy. I just kinda like my life right now."

"That's nothing to feel sorry about."

"So what can I do for you?"

"Roy Harper has been asking questions."

"Ooh," Jesse said. "They're getting shitty with you aren't they?"

"It's a war they won't win."

"So let me guess, it's time to do something about it?"

"Yes."

"Let's see, I seem to remember a history of drug abuse? Before my time, of course."

"He has a daughter as well."

Jesse laughed. "No, not a chance in hell am I going there. But I can look at the other thing, get with my guys back home and see what's what."

"I expect nothing less."

Jesse made a face. "So what about the senior Arrow?"

"Not yet. But I like your forethought."

"So I have to ask, what if his buddies find out and bring the house down on you?"

"They won't."

"Alright. Hey I gotta go, but don't be a stranger okay?"

"Same to you. You should come for the inauguration."

"Yeah, I'll buy the tickets tonight. Bye, Lex."

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	10. Convergence

**_Iron Heights Federal Penitentiary  
_** ** _Keystone City KS  
_** ** _Testimony in Consideration of Parole_**

 ** _Evan McCulloch, MBE_**

 ** _Partial transcript—intercepted by the Department of Extra-Normal Operations, July 30 2002:_**

 _"[...] I see the looks on your faces. You're thinkin does he really want parole? Nae. Nae. I need to tell you what I saw. Luthor and the others [REDACTED] anti-life. Anti-life and the end of the world and if that doesn't terrify you I don't know what will. Ask him about the [REDACTED] up in space. Ask him how he found out [REDACTED]. God almighty. Our whole lives we're runnin around thinkin you bloody people are looking over our shoulders and you're just not. You're not paying attention. [REDACTED] is."_

* * *

Tuesday November 7th.

Election Day.

At five in the morning, Mike Engel and his GCN crew were wading through sleeping bags outside the Schonenfeld's flagship Department Store there on the corner of Siegel and Fifth. A few people were awake, huddled over Colemans and enjoying their small fellowships. Engel asked if they wanted to come over to the booth for interviews.

At seven in the morning, Paul Gustavson of the _Metropolis Post_ was first in line at his local precinct out in Frankford. He walked in, flashed his license to the attendants and they handed him his ballot. He punched a hole for Luthor and turned around, handed it to another attendant, and walked right back out. He didn't bother voting for another damn thing on the ballot.

At eight in the morning, Lois Lane was at her desk in the bullpen, eyes fixed on her PowerBook, staring at a white screen, a blank Word document. Her fingers were curled on the keyboard and did not move. On one side of the desk was a rumpled and overstuffed manila envelope. On the other side of the PowerBook was a glass mug, green tea within, steam curling away from it. She cupped it and took a long drink. Then she flung the manila folder open. She knew the contents well. Almost as well as she knew herself. She looked at the screen and started typing: "Luthor Lied..."

On the moon, three in the morning on the East Coast, Superman sat alone in the Monitor Womb. A high tower of holographic screens surrounded him, feeding information from all around the globe, the anti-matter universe, sentries on Thanagar, Rann, and New Genesis, as well as an open channel to the planet Oa—the very Centre of Everything. He watched it all. The planet-side news stations had already started their election day coverage in earnest, reporters parked out at the LexCorp Plaza, at Bush headquarters in Crawford and at Gore HQ in Washington. Clark had volunteered for it, and Bruce had asked, "Are you sure?" Superman had said, "Everyone we know is holding their breath and watching this. By nine tonight, I think we'll know the lay of the land."

He was almost right.

In Gotham City, six pm on the East Coast, in the manager's office at the Sionis Steel Mill, the Joker was halfway through field-dressing the corpse of the last Arkham guard that had pissed him off and watching Vicki Vale shake her tail feathers on the TV. Whenever she said Luthor's name the Joker laughed and drank from a nearby bottle of gin and fed some to where the guard's jaw used to be. He asked the corpse if Baldy would call and Corpsy said nah and the Joker said what do you know and slapped Corpsy upside the head.

Two in the afternoon in Keystone City. In an abandoned movie theater that looked across the river to the Flash Museum, crouched in an abattoir of a men's room and halfway down a line of cocaine, the Mirror Master, Evan McCulloch, was listening to NPR on a crystal radio. It was barely white noise to him but for Luthor's name, when it came up. He stole glances at the radio every few seconds through angry, wide eyes, and thought Lex would call, in spite of everything. Someone would. They had to. Everything was finally happening.

Up in space, far above Saturn's ecliptic, a spaceship in the shape of a skull reverted to realspace in an infinitesimal green flash. Inside, its sole inhabitant screened information from the twenty-eight known galaxies, the anti-matter universe, and a pirated signal from the Justice League Watchtower. It was watching the humans. It preferred them over other races of roughly equal intelligence—Thanagarians for instance. It did not know pride or greed. It had long ago excised those extraneities and so did not care about their temporal concerns or dialectic existence. But it knew the future. It noted the local earth time in the city of the Kryptonian, seven in the post-meridian, and turned the vessel around. Towards Pluto, and a new imperative.

In Star City, nestled in northern California where the girls are warm, Oliver Queen was on duty. He had already cast his vote this morning—Gore, gladly—and now he stood on the roof of the City Building and watched the screens in the window of Schaumans television repair shop down there across the street. Evening coverage on KGRL—"K-Grell, the good neighbor to the great northwest!"—of the election. Exit polling in Luthor's favor. He looked up and saw a grey sheet of a cloud rolling in. His ear buzzed. It was Roy: "I'm here. I see Tim and Bart too." "Leave em be," Oliver said. "You sure?" Oliver said, "as cancer."

And in Metropolis, at the LexCorp Plaza, it was a party.

The confetti was in full tilt. Charlie Gibson and the Good Morning America crew remarked that it had been flowing since seven am when polls opened on the East Coast. Four grand screens were draped around the plaza, two on either side of the LexTower itself, one on the northwest corner of the plaza, on the facing wall of Schonenfeld's flagship; another on the southeast, on the corner of Stagg Industries. Every screen showed a different network's coverage. The idea, said Wolf Blitzer, was that as states came back for Luthor a cheer would go off, they'd set some fireworks off out in the bay, and once a plurality was declared, they'd cut loose. Play Luthor's stated favorite, "Fly Me to the Moon"—Sinatra, very appropriate, Blitzer said, for the science-minded candidate who among other things wanted to advance space exploration in the new millennium.

And in a shallow horseshoe around the plaza, was the media. CNN, NBC, ABC, Fox, MSNBC, WLEX, WGBS, GCN, all safe and sound with their cameras and pundits. Plastic and made-up, and wedged between Woodburn and Vicki Vale, Cat Grant sat on GCN's panel: "…Well, you know, I can't comment on anything yet, Vicki, I'm part of Mister Luthor's campaign but, you know, no one knows what's going to happen, we're all just excited to be here."

"Oh come on," Vicki said and leaned toward her. "Look out there, people are having the time of their lives. The tower is open, they're playing basketball, there's a band out by the redwood. Even if it wasn't an election, this is a heck of a party. Don't you think it's just a little premature?"

"Look," Cat said and felt a bit of honesty creeping in. "The world's unpleasant enough as it is, and we all know election years are full of uncertainty, why not just live a little tonight. I'm going to get a martini, Glenn are you in?"

By noon Lois Lane was walking down from the _Planet_ building with Jimmy Olsen. She didn't have a notepad or a tape recorder. She was on the hunt for a moment, or so she told him. A real, authentic, actual human moment. He asked her if she liked all those redundant words and she sneered and told him to zip it. He said, "Y'know, Lois, it really is nice to see you in better spirits. I know the last couple of months haven't been great with the campaign and all, but I'm happy to see you back in the world." She gave him a real, authentic, actual human smile and said, "thanks Jimmy, that means a lot. I'm trying." "Hey me too," he said. They walked on. Eventually the crowds coalesced at the end of Fifth Avenue where Siegel crosses it and it all became the LexCorp Plaza. Jimmy was surprised at how little security there was. It wasn't some campaign event, or at least it didn't feel that way. It felt like Summer in the Park. Deejayed music from somewhere in the distance. He heard—is that?—Fleetwood Mac drifting across the crowds. He got his camera up and ready. They were here from all over. Townies and the burbies, WASPs from Whitehorse come over the bridge to see a thing and be close to it and know it in their hearts. He guessed he felt it too.

Tim Drake was there, with Conner and Bart. He was hanging out at a hot dog stand by the juvenile redwood. He had his phone cradled between a crunched shoulder and one ear, and did his best to manage it between the hot dog and soda. Ostensibly he was taking it all in, a young voter, pretending to be eighteen and newly enfranchised—Tim was barely fifteen in those days—could hide under any Team Luthor plainclothes guard that happened to be watching. And the phone was the latest bit of Bruce's ingenuity too. Like a one-way mirror, every word that went across kicked back a scrambled vox that no receiver could crack. It was good like that. Bruce was good like that. He was always better than Luthor. Bart and Conner were in plainclothes around the plaza.

Tim said, "How we look?"

Bart said, "MFggffff."

Conner said, "Uh, what?"

"I'm sorry," Bart said. "They have these things over here by the tower, can-apes?"

"It's pronounced canapé," Conner said. "Oh my god."

"Oh bite me," Bart said. "Come this way and get some."

"Freaky food," Conner said. "No thanks. Tim, can I go back to Hawaii now?"

"You asked to come along."

"Oh yeah."

"Hey," Bart said.

"What?"

"What about pizza?"

"In a minute, there's this girl handing out Sundollers coffee, I'm gonna get one."

"Ah that's so crash," Bart said. "I'll come to you. Sit tight."

"Guys," Tim said and sighed. "How are you doing otherwise, do you see anything that looks out of place?"

"Jesus, Tim, why don't you just put the phone down and yell out 'I'm a Narc!' Be cool. God."

"No."

"Come on, Tim, let's go get pizza, I'm dying."

"Alright. Half an hour. Then we need to get back to patrols."

"Permission to speak freely, O Great Leader?"

"Why start now?"

"Is this what he makes you into?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Dude, just don't. I'm over by Stagg. Meet me here."

Roy Harper walked past him and gave a how-do-you-do nod. He was snaking through the crowd and stood out like a sore thumb—look for the one carrying himself like plainclothes security. He walked past Tim Drake and they gave each other a how-are-you nod. Perfect strangers in any other universe. Tim looked after him only for a moment. pulled out his phone and dialed home: "So Roy's here." The shadow on the other end said, "Same team. Different approaches. Leave him be." "If you say so," Tim said and hung up.

Jesse was there too. He was inside the Sundollers Cafe on the Stagg end of Siegel, right in the window. He peered over his sunglasses into the crowd across the way. He had Roy marked instantly. Hurly burly. A brown leather motorcycle jacket, holy jeans and muddy shitkickers, silver aviators on his face. His hair, burning orange, was close on his skull and did not look foolish. Come to think of it, Jesse thinks, everything I've learned about him is serious. Is this what the Green Arrow does to people? Roy was carrying an open Dixie cup in one hand and keeping the other open for splitting between groups and loiterers and what have you. Jesse knew him only from the profile Luthor had provided but so far the intel was on point: Roy Harper was dreadfully serious, a horribly dour man in his natural life—the life before, the life with Oliver—and now here post-Speedy, post-addiction, he maintained that seriousness. No wonder he started doing drugs: you act so hard for so long eventually you're bound to crack. Still. That body. That hair. That prideful swagger. Jesse imagines for a moment they are together and kissing.

He smiled and watched Roy pass, then shot out of Sundollers and went the opposite direction. He stuck one hand in his pocket and fingered the pill there, dug his nail into one side of it. And he walked. He walked past three boys about his age whom he did not recognize: two black haired guys, one skinny and the other a little more farm-fed, watching the third, a younger looking brunette, scarf down pizza slices. Jesse passed them and after a while stopped before the juvenile redwood. He sighted Roy again. Coming his way on an opposing circuit. Jesse started again. He kept it slow, wandering and stealing glances at the redwood and pretending it enthralled him. He bumped into Roy and swung his arm out. "Oh I'm sorry dude, sorry." Roy smiled and said it was okay and kept walking. He didn't notice Jesse slipping the pill in his cup.

He kept walking and resisted the urge to turn around, watch Roy stroll off, and see the way his ass looked in those jeans. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

"Yes?"

"Guess what I did today."

"I'm very grateful. Soon the nation will be as well."

"Does this make me like your pal now, your very own Jimmy Olsen?"

"Rather."

"I'm better looking than he is."

"Humble, too."

"Alright, I have a train to catch. Hey, thanks again for letting me come out this early, I know you said inauguration—"

"It's fine. Thank you for everything. We'll see each other again."

Jesse looked up at the LexTower. "Oh?"

"In four years. Your freshman year of college. The University here will be waiting for you. Our work must continue."

"Ten four good buddy."

Jesse closed his phone and walked away. He checked Jimmy Olsen in the shoulder as he passed him, and smiled again, imagining Olsen laying in his bed. Jesse disappeared into the crowd.

Over in an alley between the Stagg building and the Metro-Housing Authority, Roy Harper was on his hands and knees dying. Barely coherent, barely conscious, half-blind and pounding his chest to rally, to summon strength, anger, anything. He had crawled off feeling something burning. Something—a slow release. Not like the quick burns, the old days, nothing that interesting. This was. Death. He laid on the scummy asphalt and pressed one side of his face into it. Oh but it felt nice.

In his last moments, through the pain, Roy Harper thought he saw a wall. A wall. But.

Full of people.

So high you can't go over, so wide you can't go around. The only way—

He looked up and saw a statue of a woman over him. She looked—

"Jade?" he said as his vision began to fade.

"You wish," said Mercy Graves. She produced a holdout pistol from one sleeve and shot him in the forehead.

On the moon, Superman was still watching the news. It was eight o'clock on the East Coast and polls had been closed for an hour. And one by one they said the same thing. Anybody's game. And no one's game. Exit polls this. Exit polls that.

He felt—

He turned his head to one side.

"You came back?"

"Yes. I wanted to check on you."

Superman stood and turned around. In the moment before she spoke, he took stock of her.

Diana. Wonder Woman. In magnificent golden armor, a winged helmet tucked under one arm. Dressed for war. Or diplomacy.

"Going somewhere?"

She breathed. "The information I'm getting…"

"Says he'll win."

She was silent. Looked around the chamber and finally said, "Yes."

He looked at the screens. "Sleep mode, please, Kelex. Audio and visual, but bring them back if there's an alert. Give me the Earth." The tubular holographs faded and the blackness of the Monitor Womb tessellated into a seamless view of the planet. This blue dot.

Father.

"And you're going to pay congratulations?"

"In my official capacity as ambassador, yes."

He stayed looking at the planet. What to say. What not—

"He's waiting for you. His car just pulled up to the Tower." He turned back to her. "This is not going to go the way you think, Diana."

"How do you know this?"

He looked away. "Just a feeling."

"I have to treat him with some amount of deference. Doing so may mitigate some of his more extreme positions. Wouldn't you agree?"

"What if it was you."

"Excuse me?"

"If he was one of yours. Doctor Minerva or some scheme of Circe's. If he tortured your loved ones. Kidnapped your family. If he found out every last thing about you—"

"Kal—"

"Like everything else in his miserable life, this is another way to get rid of me."

"Kal—"

"That is not my name!"

He took a deep breath. He shrunk into himself. Superman always carried himself strong and proud, and Clark Kent was somewhere under that. Hunched and hidden. He had the same sunken body language in this moment as he did when he left Lana at the station all those years ago. His first great moment of weakness. He had, he supposed, always hoped it would be the last.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Every time I feel like I've accepted this something else happens and I'm back to square one."

"I understand," she said. Then she was by his side, observing the planet.

"Lois," Superman said. "Also suggested I stop him."

Diana considered it.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Luthor wouldn't go without a fight. They both knew it too well; better perhaps than Wally or Kyle did, not having the long experience with the Luthors, the Circes, the Jokers of the world. Such a fight, she knew would result in one thing. A war of retaliation. Everyone against everyone. Apocalypse. Death. Iliupersis.

She tells herself she's seen such an ending before, in the mutual annihilation of Trojan and Achaean, in the sundering of a civilization and the ending of the world. Still. She tells herself the Justice League could do it. The public would understand, eventually. They could set themselves as gods upon this earth. If only they had the wisdom to make the first action. She tells herself that if it came to it, she could make the choice and live with it. And then she tells herself she's lying.

Mother, she thinks. I fear we've created something terrible. The idea of sedition. Rebellion. Resistance. Ideas cannot be killed. They can only transform. So what are we becoming?

She looked at Superman and saw the same look in his eyes. The same thoughts. Remove Lex Luthor. There are ways. Even ways to make him disappear and to make it look like an accident. Despite the dangers. Make the choice. And live with what follows. If they could. If they would.

After a moment he said, "How did it come to this."

She was silent. After a moment she said: "you know, I know Persephone."

He looked at her.

"This all reminded me of her. For all that her life is not what she imagined and for all that she can't stand him, she resolutely believes Hades is not evil. I'm inclined to agree, you see. He is living his function, as all things must. And so they continue the cycle, year after year." She looked away.

"Hades," he said. "Pluto in the Roman tradition. The god of wealth."

Her eyes seemed to light up. "You studied."

"It grabbed my imagination as a kid. All that sort of thing did. Plato, Aristotle." A smile came across his face. It was a fond memory, despite everything, sitting in the bed of Pa's truck reading Plato. Of course then Whitney would usually come along and haul him out and give him shit but that was by the way. Whitney had changed. Clark certainly had.

"I knew them," she said. "When I was young. They would have liked you, Clark."

"I would've loved to meet them."

"We could do it," she said. "I know where Wally keeps his time machine."

They shared a laugh, and it seemed to stretch on for an eternity. In those strange days, you took what you could get. Like most things, it was here and gone.

"You stopped calling me Kal."

"You yelled at me," she said.

He scratched his head. "I'm so sorry, Diana."

"Your feelings are valid, Clark. You have friends that love you. We are here for you. And we are here for them." She gestured toward the planet.

They shared a smile and a moment. Or at least it seemed like a moment. A held gaze. And something more between—

The chamber chimed to life. Kelex spoke:

"Alert. Alert. Alert."

Superman said, "Give it to me."

The feeds tessellated back into existence before them.

"You wished to be informed, sir. Major media outlets are declaring Alexander Luthor—"

"Enough," he said. "Audio and visual only please."

Superman and Wonder Woman watched in silence.

Blitzer and CNN for Luthor—

Engel in the GCN booth—

ABC.

WGBS.

FOX.

MSNBC.

 _ **LEX WINS**_.

Pundits talking to themselves, to each other, over each other. Like New Year's Eve, the confetti billowed from the LexTower in great bursts. They were playing Sinatra. Vicki Vale and Glenn Woodburn looked angry. Cat Grant, sitting between them, was drinking champagne from the bottle. The crowds were alive. Geraldo walking among them getting reactions. Baby Boomers. College kids. The old and the young side by side welcoming a millennial change.

Superman looked at Wonder Woman.

"Clark—"

A cold wind scoured past her.

She held out one hand. Bowed her head. Her heart—her voice—sunk.

"Clark…"

In Metropolis the celebrations continued into the night. Luthor HQ, as the tower was, was agog with commotion. The crowds stayed strong. The pundits kept at their commentaries. The campaign eventually rolled out two floodlights and put them on either side of the LexTower and lit them up. The beams shone in the night, confetti flew through them, and the party kept going.

From his office Luthor saw them.

He was standing, a glass of Macallan in one hand, at the window and looking down. A hundred and ten storeys. Low-power lamp disks on either corner of the desk were the only source of light in his office. Behind him the floodlights cast opposing bright angles into the night and bathed him in proximal shadows.

He was quiet.

Everything was finally happening.

The first evidence that the work he put into improving this miserable planet would be rewarded. He thought of Lois, who asked him straight out once why he wanted to be president. The Ted Kennedy question. Of course he had a suitable answer: to better the lives of as many Americans as I can. To promote better living, more robust health. Among other things, to end our slavish devotion not only on foreign oil but on oil period. In fifty years time when the final crisis comes and our oil reserves are gone we will lament that loss and in turn be lost. Without a means to continue as a people on this planet. Another way is necessary and to that end, on day one in the White House your new president will recommend a combination moratorium/vector conversion on fossil fuel usage. He borrowed a line from Gore he liked it so much: don't let them tell you we're gonna go live on Mars. We have one planet and one chance. But environmentalism was such a small part of it. Such a bullshit line. Such a mechanical prospect.

He was more interested in the conceptual victory, from which came all other victories.

Yes Superman, your greatest enemy, the greatest criminal mind of our time, the greatest mind on this or any other planet, became President and what's more you'll never even know how. You'll never know if it was real or bought. If I rigged the system like I've rigged so many others or if they believed me.

You imagined for years that your way wasn't just different from mine, you believed it was better. You believed Lex Luthor, the greatest humanity had to offer, was the worst threat to humanity. And you believed humans, basically good, could achieve their hopes and dreams if only someone could show them the way, hold their hand and take them into a nanny state of a future where Superman and his friends maintain moral arbitration. Your teleology is a culture of sick dependence, Man of Steel, and it holds us back. If this miserable planet is ever going to come down from the trees they're going to have to start getting hurt, getting broken, rising above it. They're going to have to stop waiting for Superman to pick them up. You used to believe this.

They had a choice and they chose me.

They chose a New God.

Let that burn in your heart, Man of Steel.

I'll spend the rest of my life making sure they choose me, the rest of my life making sure you never forget it.

He breathed and finished the Macallan in one go. He sat at the desk and flipped open his PowerBook. Began typing: "My friends, the good people of Metropolis, and the United States of America—"

His phone vibrated in his jacket and he plucked it out.

"It's Luthor."

"Mister Luthor," came that flat Tennessee drawl. "This is Al Gore."

"Mister Vice President."

"I'm calling you from the Naval Observatory, Mister Luthor. The results are in and they are clear and I hereby concede the race. Congratulations, Mister President-elect."

"That's very kind of you, Al, thank you."

"Thank you, Mister Luthor." His reply sounded so forced. So created. "I've enjoyed working with you these past few months. We differ on a lot of things but I'm confident we share the same goals and passion to see this country thrive."

"That we do, Al," he lied. "If it's alright with you and once we clear the proper channels I'd like to discuss possible positions where your talents might be best put to use."

"That'll be fine, Mister Luthor—"

"Lex," he said. The old lure. "You must call me Lex."

"Lex it is. Thanks again for your kindness."

"Thank you, Al. Have a good evening. My love to Tipper."

He closed his phone and slid it back in his pocket. Went back to typing: "...I spoke with the Vice President a moment ago and he offered me a gracious concession. Now our work can continue—"

He stopped.

And breathed.

And felt the shadow.

"So."

"You have something I want."

"I very much doubt that."

"The ring."

"The obsidian? It was my grandfather's, but give me a price and we'll talk. Family is overrated, don't you agree."

The shadow spoke. So far it didn't have a body but he knew it was hiding out there. "You set green Kryptonite into a ring. You wanted to keep him away. Give it to me now."

Luthor looked at the approaching shadow. Not quite man, no, but something more. And less. Fear. In the shape of a bat. He wasn't impressed.

"The Bat-Man," he said and made a crooked smile. "Or do you prefer a different name? The Caped Crusader. The World's Greatest Detective?"

It started walking toward him.

"Lex—"

"Bruce."

It stopped.

Luthor smiled. "Bruce. Thomas. Wayne."

"Give me the ring," the shadow said.

Luthor made a face and clapped his hands together. "All these years and it's you. I'm disappointed."

The shadow pounded two fists onto the desk and growled like a professional: "this isn't a debate."

"Oh," Luthor said. "I think it is. Ask yourself something, Dark Knight. Are you upset that I've won because of who I am, or because I want a world without Superman? Would it really be that bad. You, I'd let you continue. With conditions. But Superman? The rest of them? Gone. Imagine what we could be without them. I can taste it, Bruce, it's so close to happening. You know it as well as I do. And you want to see a future as well as I do. This is the only way."

"I'm not asking nicely."

"Neither am I," Luthor said. "The ring is mine."

"Lex—"

"I'm done with this conversation, Bruce. The Secret Service is on their way up here. I think I'll have them unmask you and put a bullet between your eyes. Just like your parents, you little—"

Then the shadow was upon him. He throttled Luthor and threw him into the window, which split into a million spiderwebs. The shadow threw him on the floor and put a boot on Luthor's neck.

"Give it to me or I'll kill you."

Luthor choked the words out: "Leave...now..."

He heard the lobby elevator ding open and suddenly the pressure was off his neck. The Batman was gone. Luthor propped himself up, coughing, and watched the agents pour in. They spotted him on the floor rubbing his neck and fanned out. The lead agent crouched by him.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Luthor glared at him.

"It was Batman. Find him."

The lead agent rounded up the others and they stormed back out. Mercy passed them on her way in. She rushed to his side and helped him into his chair. He looked at her.

"Call the others. Everyone."

* * *

 _ **Continued…**_


	11. No More Secrets

**_United States Air Force_**  
 _Heavy Arms Disposition and Disposal_  
 _445th Airlift Wing_  
 _Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Fairborn OH  
_ _Colonel Richard Flag Jr, Commander_

Colonel Flag,

You are hereby served notice that in accordance with Executive Order 75.1993 the biological weapon in question code-named Doomsday, currently housed on-site at the Air Force Research Laboratory, is to be transferred effective immediately to Joint Base Andrews. Proper logistical recommendations from the Depart of Extra-Normal Affairs can be found in the attachments. Any questions should be directed to Director Waller. Your prompt attention is appreciated.

Regards,

Maj. Sam Lane

Secretary of Defense  
The Pentagon  
Cc: The White House  
Cc: DIR/DEO Waller  
Cc: DIR/CIA Eiling

* * *

Morning. November the eighth.

The crowds that had stayed in the LexCorp Plaza the day before remained into the night and the next morning. Sleeping bags littered the campus in intermittent groupings, the stages and the bands and the DJs kept going. The news channels kept going. At seven in the morning they started the cycle again, this time with a new message.

Victory.

Jenny was there.

She stays in on Election night, while Tim Drake, Roy Harper, and Jesse Wright carry out separate missions in the LexCorp Plaza. She stays in her room at the Metropolis Plaza Hotel, staring at Wally's twenty-two on the mattress. She sits on the bed, drinking black coffee, and she stares at it for hours. Waiting for some sign. I travelled all this way. Give me some sign that this is what I'm supposed to do. She moves from the mattress, slides down to the floor and smooths the wrinkles of her dress and kneels at the foot of the bed. She props her elbows and links her fingers together and presses her forehead against her thumbs. She breathes. God. Give me a sign. Please. I've tried to be good I swear I can.

She presses her eyes shut.

Please.

He ruined my life he—

 _Do it_

What?

 _Do it pain justifies your actions_

But—

I can't.

 _He took your life and made it a dream and now the dream is dead_

I don't know. And she starts weeping.

 _Loneliness plus alienation plus fear—_

What?

She opens her eyes.

Looks out the window. It's morning. How long was I kneeling there?

Looks at the gun.

She says okay, grabs it into her purse, and leaves. Before she can even think about it.

And she walked.

It had rained overnight, but only a little, and all the odors of the city, every rancid garbage can, every pile of dog shit, every littered soda or coffee seemed to assault her senses. The sun shone in between the buildings, twilight mixed with the day. She thought, this is Metropolis. Warts and all. Funny. From the brochures it looks so clean. Visit Metropolis, they said. Safest city in the world, they said. It's clean and it's safe, she always had heard, not like Gotham, I mean Jesus that place is like Hell through the pavement.

It's a lie.

He's just covered the problems.

She passed the _Daily Planet_ building and watched two guards flying up the street—power suits, purple and green, and men, she guessed, inside. Team Luthor. Private security. Lex, she thought. My god.

Lex.

You must call me Lex.

She breathed and closed her eyes. And forced herself to keep walking.

Keep your head down. Eyes down.

Mustn't—

 _Do it_

I don't feel good.

 _Do it_

No.

 _You can't you know what he's done you have to end him come on he ruined you_

No.

 _He made you into this not really alive not really dead you're between two worlds crying out you need to do something_

She looked up.

She was there. At the edge of the crowd. She stuck her hand out like a fin and pushed through the bodies.

 _Do it he tried to possess absolute control over you and you're not really alive when that happens you're not alive you're not part of life you're anti-life_

What?

 _So do it do this_

She was nearing the front.

Someone was talking.

Men were coming.

Oh god.

She got to the front row.

Someone was talking. A woman with blonde hair curled over one shoulder, she was talking into a handheld micrphone, the kind Jenny had only ever seen on the evening news. The blonde lady said: "…And it's my pleasure and my honor now to introduce to you—"

 _The rock the chain and the lightning_

What, no stop it what—

 _Who is your new god now and forever_

"—The forty-third President of the United States! Mister! Alexander! Luthor!"

The blonde lady stepped to one side and far ahead the doors of the Tower opened, both of them, on cue. And out he came.

He looked younger. And yet.

Still the same.

She brought her purse around and held it just below her navel. She opened the flap and stuck her hand down in it. Felt the cool metal of the barrel under her fingers. She breathed. She heard it in her head again.

 _This is a gift Jenny it's the right to point the finger or the gun_

Those eyes.

He—

 _Loneliness_

It wasn't just that he remembered her. Or the flash in his eyes when he recognized her. No.

 _Alienation_

It was much worse.

 _Fear_

He never forgot her.

 _Despair_

He glanced at her in the moment before she fire and his face seemed to light up.

 _Do it Jenny all of life is an equation that must be balanced and you have to balance this_

In the moment before she fired—

They locked eyes.

And was it a smile she saw there on the devil's face?

She pulled the twenty-two out of her purse, thumbed the hammer back expertly. She was impressed at herself.

Off to one side she heard screaming. He did too, his head cocked only slightly. She saw his arms open up, a wide offertory.

Shall I tell you your life story?

Lex.

She closed her eyes.

He smiled.

She fired.

Wrapped her finger around the trigger and squeezed—not pulled, she remembered what Wally told her no one pulls a trigger for Christ's sake you squeeze it. So she did. And for the next moment, which stretched on for her for a thousand years, nothing happened.

And then.

The plaza exploded. Screams. People running.

And above it all a single sound rang out. How best to describe it. A weapon of death doing what it was made for. Jenny standing there in the crowd, alone and apart. And the twenty-two in her hands, heavy as a brick and she felt herself staring at it. Not weak. Not ashamed. Just.

It makes you feel it.

She thought to herself: my god.

And she heard something else

 _You've endured enough indignities Jenny known enough pain suffered enough nightmares its all over now there will be some discomfort but I promise you'll be free now you'll be justified and one day you'll join me at the Wall_

Who are you?

In the moment before the Secret Service tackled her, slammed her head into the pavement, grabbed up her arms and dislocated her shoulders in the process, and cuffed her like a dog—

 _Godfrey_

She turned the name over in her mind, as they slapped the cuffs on her and hauled her to her knees. She was stretching out now in her mind. She didn't know any—

 _Of course you don't but you will Jenny there's a wall and it contains all we are and all we shall be and I will see you at the end_

Yes.

Yes she thought as they hauled her up.

To see him.

She.

He smiled.

She looked around, as much as she could. Her head hurt. Her knees hurt. Everything—

"Jenny."

"You," she said. "You remember me?"

"I do," he said. Those green eyes burned so bright and scanned the plaza, empty now. They both heard sirens in the distance. He looked back at her. "You missed." And he gestured to the dead thing on the steps, her body twisted out at a hideous angle, blood dripping away from the hole in her chest.

Then he looked at Jenny. "Her name was Cat. I'll make sure they remember it."

She spit on him.

He scowled and wiped it off his face. Looked at it and then at her. "And I'll make sure the world forgets you, Jenny Hubbard. Forever."

She screamed and threw herself at him and the Secret Service agents hauled her back to her knees.

"Goodbye," he said. "You should have said yes."

Then he gestured to the agents. She was almost sure, in the haze of a concussion, that the agents were going to kill her then and there.

It's okay. She lied to herself. This was—

"Superman," she wheezed out and Luthor stopped halfway up the stairs. He turned and looked back at her.

"I hope," she said and coughed up blood. "I hope he kills you."

She felt a dull smack at the base of her skull.

And was gone.

* * *

Noon of a winter day. Middle of December and the snow had come in droves, white drifts along the freeway sliding down on themselves until they became black sludge in the gutter. The sky was a great grey sheet and the air around him felt crisp and quiet. He thought of Kent. And Kent's mother, stuck in that snowdrift all those years ago. Imagine if she stayed, Man of Steel. Imagine if they never found you.

A world without Superman. That's all I've ever wanted.

He had decided to ride down from Metropolis to DC instead of the customary fly-in; Bill had mentioned it in passing in December: you could fly in on Marine One, we'll be on the lawn to welcome you in, could be a nice photo op. Luthor said no thank you, I prefer to ride in, and we'll keep security to a minimum. Something about being closer to the road. He told Bill he wanted to feel it, and it was so hard to feel the enormity of the thing from air. It was a line of humility, and bullshit.

And so he drove. Or more precisely, Jenner drove the Lincoln, in those days a simple black town car. Out of the city. Into the countryside. Over the bay. Into the district, as he'd come to call it. To some extent he felt like it was a district. A quarantine. All the apparatchiks and their offices were here, the mechanisms of the government he now controlled.

But. Maybe control wasn't the right word. After all there were such things as checks and balances. Partisan bickering, the quotidian detritus of the bureaucracy. Their beloved system. This democracy.

Watch, Man of Steel.

Watch as I take it from them.

He considered it.

Clark Kent.

Horus.

Apollo.

Jehovah.

Kal-el.

A lord of light. A creator, and a creation myth alongside. Superman. The immigrant from the stars who came here to save us from ourselves. Disgusting. I used to be able to predict your moves, pathetic as they were. But it's been two years. Two years since the No Man's Land and your ridiculous throwing down of the gauntlet. We haven't spoken and you've become a mystery. I used to be able to read your mind.

Can you read mine?

He looked out the window. They came upon a row of pine trees covered in snow. He plucked a pair of aviators from his jacket and slid them on. Slid down in the seat and dozed, thinking of Kent. And Lois.

Eventually he slept.

And eventually he woke. Jenner was calling back to him.

"Sir," he said. "We're entering the city."

Luthor straightened up and looked out the window. The city passing them by. Old buildings, or buildings meant to look old, standing alongside the new. He told Jenner to take the long way.

The Cathedral. The Supreme Court. Even Ford's Theatre.

A corner of the Capitol Hill landscaping. The Lincoln passed a spot of flat grass, snow driven to the sides, and a group of students maybe fifty deep lying concentric in the grass, the ringleader bellowing into a bullhorn towards the building. They were doing a lie-in. Maybe a die-in.

"Slow down," he said.

He lowered the window and watched the students lying there in the snow.

"Rich."

"Yes, sir?"

"Find out what they're protesting. I want to know if we can do something for them."

Rich looked at him in the mirror and nodded.

They came to a red light by the Capitol and Luthor beheld a gaggle of tour buses in a parking area—students coming and going for tours. Congresspeople coming and going. Lobbyists. Protesters. He considered getting out. Going for a visit. He made out one of the names on the buses: Gotham Public Schools. And a host of kids there milling about in the snow.

He lit a cigarette.

"I suppose I'll have to stop doing this."

"Sir?"

"Smoking. What do you think."

Jenner looked in the mirror. "I think you can do whatever you want, sir."

Luthor looked out the window. Tamped the cigarette against the frame and watched the kids. Some of them glanced over. And what, he wondered, did they see? A hand and a Lucky Strike from the blackness? Could they see his face and if so what did they think. A couple of them seemed to notice—one slapped his friend's shoulder and gestured toward the car. They gave a what's-up nod, and Luthor dipped his hand toward them.

They don't know.

They will.

The light turned green. He threw the Lucky Strike out into the slush.

The Lincoln went on.

Another few minutes and they were there. Jenner waved at the gate house. The gates parted and the Lincoln idled up the drive, a grand oval on the south side of the White House. Lex stepped out of the car and stood there on the drive. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, beyond some perfunctory exterior sense that he was watching things happen. And being watched.

Bill was out on the lawn, no overcoat in the chill, a flank of Secret Service agents behind him. They fanned out on the lawn, their backs to Luthor and Clinton. He grabbed Luthor's hand in a solid two-shake grip.

"How are you," he said and smiled that Bill Smile.

"I'm well," Luthor said. "Thank you for inviting me."

"It's my pleasure. We just want to make sure you have the tools you need to succeed, Lex. Let's come in and get a coffee."

Then.

Above them, like a sick joke, the clouds parted. The sun shone in, casting Clinton and Luthor in a halo.

No.

Luthor growled and looked.

Up in the sky.

No.

So help me god he growled and balled his hands into fists and tried to contain the fire inside.

He breathed.

And down came the alien.

Luthor did not move but every inch of him was alive. His hands were tight fists at his sides. His shoulders tensed, a condor over some carrion, his legs shoulders apart. His eyes, burning green on a good day, gleamed even more in the light of a snowy day. They were stuck on Superman. Floating there. That cape. That hair. That body.

Sickening.

Superman landed perfectly, smiled perfectly, walked up to the President of the United States and shook his hand perfectly. "It's nice to see you, sir."

Superman smiled and looked between Luthor and Clinton. He said, "May I have a word with the President-elect?"

"Of course," Clinton said and nodded and strolled away. The agents followed.

Superman watched until they were inside.

"You think they'd honestly walk away from the conversation we're about to have? They always listen. And you stand there with your smile and your—"

"Lex. Shut up."

"You're so full of shit, Kent."

"You almost broke me. Made me doubt myself."

Luthor waited.

"I wanted to tell you, Lex. I know who I am. I know what I stand for. The symbol on my chest means something. It's all some people have. The ideals I fight for are beyond both of us. Beyond good or evil or your wildest dreams. You can fight them all you like, you can scream against me and try to remake this world in your own graven image, but ideas never die. Truth and justice never die, Lex."

The breeze kicked up between them. Luthor said, "Are you finished?"

"Yes."

"Because I want to ask you, Kent. Does it burn in your chest. That this democracy, your democracy, elected me. You allowed it to happen. You could have stopped me anytime you wanted but I'm glad your purity kept you away. And now you float down here with that prepared bullshit and want to engage me? I think not."

"I've been here for years, Lex. I'm here right now."

Luthor rolled his eyes.

"You could walk away," Superman said. "Give it to Pete. Say you ran to prove that you could, and you did it and you're going to back to private life now."

"Suddenly you care. Convenient. You sat this one out and it's cost you your moral center, Kent. After this you'll be lucky to save a cat from a tree. And how does that make you feel? They wanted a messiah, you settled for being a sideshow."

"I could say the same thing about you."

"Oh I'm sure you could, couldn't you?"

"I don't answer to you, Lex."

"But you answer to them!" He pointed down the lawn at the south fence. "And not me?!"

"I'm trying to save them!"

Superman said it again, quieter: "I'm trying to save them."

"From what!"

Superman was looking at the ground. When Luthor spoke, he drifted up and stared into those horrible green eyes.

"From you."

Luthor seethed.

"You never believed in me," he said. "After all this time."

Superman breathed. This conversation was over. Before it began. It was now wasted motion.

He lifted into the air and felt the breeze rise to meet him.

"Lex," he said. "You may have them fooled, but you'll never fool me. I'll be watching you. Closely."

Then he was gone.

* * *

And so in 2001, at the dawn of the new millennium, the human story went on. Unabated. Uninterrupted for once by superhumans and their higher concerns. The story went on. Had always gone on. Would always go on. There will, he discovered, always be another story. Another life to save. Another mission. Another disaster to avert. Another crisis to solve.

It ends when you wish it to end.

What matters then is command. And discipline.

And courage.

Right?

Superman landed in Metropolis, across the street from the _Daily Planet_ building. He ducked into a nearby phone booth and in a blur he stepped out as Clark Kent. An impeccable blue suit, white oxford, red tie in a four-in-hand. He tipped the fedora at a jaunty angle. For once, the suit fit. For years it hadn't—part of the illusion.

But to some extent that was done now.

Lex Luthor knew who he was.

And of course he knew quite well who Lex Luthor was.

It was a freeing thing. No secrets anymore.

He smiled. The street was dark for once. No hum of life to it. Ah, but he still felt it. Through his shoes, in the sidewalk. He knelt and laid one hand on the cement. And felt the world sing to him. The sidewalk. The earth beneath it. Death, that feeds new life. The roiling hum of the subway. Deeper. A tectonic plate. The spin of the planet, the warmth of the molten core, the electromagnetic harmony of its existence and this dimension.

He admitted it all kept him pretty humble. It's an exercise in smallness when we ponder the universe and our place in it. Even with gods, aliens, and all the monsters besides—

Father.

I think I understand now.

It's a privilege to be among them.

He stood. Straightened his jacket and righted his posture; for years he had stooped, slouched, hidden inside Clark Kent. Now he stood straight and true. No more secrets.

He took a breath and looked ahead. The building was lit up like a Christmas tree. He looked at the newsroom there on the thirty-eighth floor. They were waiting. He thought of Ma's tree, always a Douglas fir from the Horne farm two towns over, the real thing, all those lights twinkling from nests in the tinsel. It was a beautiful memory.

He crossed the street. Stuck his hands in his packets and let out a long sigh.

it was like a weight had been lifted.

In spite of everything.

He crossed the street, and as he did he saw Lois slink out from one of the doors. She shut it behind her and sauntered down the steps. She smiled when she saw him. And when he saw her he opened his arms and she leapt into a hug and a kiss.

He put her down and said, "What's the occasion?"

"Perry wanted to throw a little honorarium, said we deserved it. Everyone's upstairs."

"Everyone, really?"

"Yeah," she said and smiled. Rested her head on Clark's shoulder. "Who knew the big guy had it in him."

Clark cocked his head. He looked in and through the building: thirty-eight floors up Perry was leaning against his office doorjamb drinking something from a lowball, talking to Troupe and Lombard. He was—

"Oh wow," Clark said. "He's laughing."

"I think after the election he's determined to find joy where he can," Lois said. "He's a man after my own heart, I don't mind telling you."

He thought about it.

"Hey," she said. "Are you okay?"

He waited. He noticed he was slouching. It was all hitting him again.

Lex.

Himself.

All of this.

"I don't know," he said. Stayed looking down. "I went down to talk to Lex."

"...Oh."

"I can't help thinking. What if I was wrong?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head. "For years I've hoped that one day the planet would no longer need us. That maybe, we'd save all we possibly could. Society would reach some kind of stasis. This age of superheroes would have an endpoint. And the world would..."

She was quiet.

He shook his head. Shook himself out of it. Looked at her and smiled.

"We," she said and waited. The word hung in the air, waiting to be picked up. "We'll keep our eyes on him. It'll all be okay, Clark."

He looked at her.

Something Bruce had said came back into his mind.

When the time is right—

We'll take Luthor down.

He slid one hand around her waist, pulled her close. "I love you, Lois Lane. Till the end of time."

She smiled, one corner of her mouth up at a cute angle.

"I love you too."

It was the way she said it. So casual, and so meaningful. He knew she was conflicted about it, too. All the years of their lives and all of them so affected by this man. But he could also tell it was important to her to move past her reservations. His too, he supposed. He never once doubted her intent, or her resolve. And resolve was always the word for Lois Lane. That fiery spit of hope, that determination. How human. How could he not fall in love with her? And what was it she saw in him? The last son of Krypton? The sole survivor of a dead race? Once upon a time he had merely been a professional rival for her—while, hilariously, Superman became a personal rival.

Eventually it all came out okay.

Everything does.

He stooped to kiss her, and she met it. He watched a million atoms dance across her skin, a million skin cells die and flutter away. The fabulous internal systems that allowed this miracle to happen—this human to exist. The quantum powers beyond any measure that brought people together. Kept them together. The bonds of affection that create society and allow love and kindness, truth and justice, to exist.

Together they went inside, to see what lie ahead.

* * *

And in the White House, President Luthor holds a closed session. Ostensibly it's for Cabinet selections. And yet. The briefing is not on his official schedule, nor does it exist on any public register or anything that may be traceable. No staffer will remember it. No presser will mention it.

He storms past Mac there at the door, in his obscene plaid suit and straw hat, and Mac says, "I think they're ready for you, Mister Lewthor."

Luthor nods and opens the door. Shuts it back behind him. Stands there for a moment—

The beings around the table look at each other, and at him. He sits, unusually, at the head of the table instead of the big chair on the side, the one with President Luthor on the name plate in front of it.

"Now," he says. "Let's begin. Imagine a conspiracy not of rogue nations or an intelligence apparatus but of a brilliant man and his old friends playing billiards with the universe. Geopolitics bores him, human lives are beneath him, the only thing that satisfies is Power itself. The problem of absolute power. And the ability to remake the world. Who's with me?"

Sam Lane—

Amanda Waller—

Wade Eiling—

They all nod and say yes.

Luthor looks at the far end of the table. At a man in a tan suit and orange hair swept forward on a prodigious cranium. He had done this sort of thing before, been among these people and believed he knew their secret hearts better than perhaps they themselves did. The Source, in the end, reveals all things.

"And you, Mister Godfrey?"

Godfrey smiles. His thin lips curl away from his teeth. He offers up his hands. "You know, my master supports you, Lex. And he always has."

Luthor smiles.

And says, "Welcome back."

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	12. High Hopes

**Department of Extra-Normal Operations**  
 **Washington, D.C.**  
 **Office of the Deputy Director**

INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM  
DATE: 8-4-2001  
FROM: BONES, Deputy Director  
TO: Cameron Chase, Special Agent

Dear Agent Chase,

The accompanying material is confidential and approved for your eyes only. The preliminary dossier was presented to us on 2-4-2001 from a crime scene that is still under active investigation. All details of this situation are highly classified. It is being given to you for comprehensive analysis, cataloging and cross-referencing content against all known databases under Code Red measures. We believe the matters in the dossier constitute a potential threat to national security. Background: the case involves a series of correspondence and collated data from multiple media sources sent from the Metropolis metro area in the year leading up to the 2000 election and immediately thereafter. Please review and provide context within the appended guidelines and remit to me as soon as possible. Your prompt attention is appreciated.

Sincerely Yours,

[signed]  
Bones

* * *

Years ago.

Sam Lane—

Had sent the letter asking for the introduction.

Glorious Godfrey ran out of WGBS in those days, his half hour show wedged between Donahue and Sally Jessie, meant to catch the low-information afternoon crowd. In the evening he went on NBC, ABC, CBS or if he was feeling spritely he'd go on with McLaughlin and join the yelling. The message was some variation on the same theme: the superhero community was made up of a bunch of essentially pugilistic and overgrown children who'd rather throw fists than solve the very real problems their world was facing. Hunger, deforestation, overcrowded prison populations. Even in the late Eighties when society seemed to be riding high at the dawn of Fukuyama's end of history, there was Godfrey admonishing. Morgan Edge was still the head of WGBS. He got Lane's letter. His secretary had delivered it, saying, "Do we know anyone at Nellis Air Force Base?"

Edge cocked an eye and said, "Probably some joke of Luthor's. Give it here."

He slid one calloused finger under the flap and ripped it open. Read it over. Looked at Betty, standing there like she was waiting for the bus. "We're going to have a visit. I'm going downstairs."

Down he went to Studio C: broadcast haven for _Talking Heads with G. Gordon Godfrey_. He waved past the stage crew, swung backstage to Godfrey's dressing room. He rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. No sound.

"Mister Godfrey," he said and cleared his throat.

"Enter."

Edge slid the door open. In those days he'd learned to tread lightly after a scad of disappointments for, well, how to best to describe it? An out of town interest.

Luthor had bought out the last surviving Gazzo years before, Tómas scrambling to the LexTower after the rest of his family had been slowly killed off by some crazy down Gotham way. So it wasn't from the old mob that Godfrey came, and his interests—and those of his boss—were no mere territorial pissing matches. No.

Edge knew where Godfrey came from. More precisely, he knew what Godfrey was.

Didn't he?

Godfrey was sitting on a brown leather davenport against the back wall, watching black and white footage on a television set. Next to him a magisterial turntable arrangement was playing a soft guitar line. Godfrey looked fixed on the television. Edge looked at him, and then at the screen.

Hard to describe. Riots. Police in riot gear, advancing on angry throngs. Kids—students. Guns. Flowers. Godfrey was scowling, his glasses reflecting the image. To Edge he looked like a white-eyed automaton.

"Uh," Edge said. "You got a letter."

Godfrey grabbed the remote and paused the image. The screen shuddered and froze on a woman, crying over a body at her knees. Godfrey looked at Edge.

"Kent State," he said. "Do you know why I'm watching this, Mister Edge?"

"Nope." He liked to think he knew better than to question.

"Because it engrosses me," Godfrey said. "What stops a bad guy with a gun, Morgan, a good student with a flower? A restraining order? Your society creates all these suppositions about what life should be and then people roundly break all expectations. Society is a trap, Mister Edge, and I've come to set you free."

Edge waited for a moment. HIs legs burned but he dare not move, dare not flinch. Godfrey could be cagey and just weird a lot of the time, and Edge didn't want to set him off.

"Uh," he said again.

"Give it here," Godfrey said and held out his hand. Edge pulled it from his coat and laid it in Godfrey's flat, pale hand. Almost robotically.

Godfrey flipped it open. His eyes grew behind the glasses and he smiled. Looked back at Edge.

"Major Lane, you say."

"It could be good optics."

"Indeed it could. Arrange it at once!"

Edge turned and went away. Godfrey watched him go, scowling.

A week later, Major Lane came to the WGBS Building. Edge himself directed Lane to Godfrey's dressing room. Even to Godfrey with his long experience it seemed so…what, parochial? Mechanical. He confessed he was getting tired of this place and their ways. But there was a mission to be done.

"Major Lane," he said and gestured toward the davenport. Reclining at one end and smoothing the wrinkles in his suit, he smiled and beheld Lane, sitting on the other end, as far away from Godfrey as he could. On the edge of the cushion. Such military bearing. Godfrey clicked his tongue.

"So," Godfrey said. "You're the famous Sam Lane."

Lane smiled and shifted in place. "It's a pleasure, Mister Godfrey. I just wanted to meet you before I leave town, and let you know…how highly I think of you."

"Before you leave?" Godfrey cocked his head. "But you've just flown in. Expressly for this meeting, have you not?"

"I'm afraid that's classified, Mister Godfrey. Let's just say for now that since I'm in the neighborhood I wanted to pass my warm wishes to you."

"I appreciate that," Godfrey said. "Very much."

Then Godfrey was standing. Lane paid attention to the contours of his suit, brown wool in three pieces, flaring about him as moved from the davenport to the turntable assembly. Godfrey said, "Do you listen to records, Major Lane?"

"Hm?"

"Well," Godfrey said and bent down in front of the rows. "I'm told you military types are all business, no foolishness, and I wonder if that extends to music. I do have some Gregorian chants here if you prefer a sobering experience. I just felt like perhaps we could enjoy some music while we talk."

"That'll be fine," Lane said.

"Buffalo Springfield," Godfrey said and stuck a finger in the air. "I've been reading on the civil unrest of the Sixties and as troubling as I find the whole affair—of course I confess my home was little different—I find the music of the era remarkable. So, Buffalo Springfield. For what it's worth." Then he chuckled as he put the record on. Resumed his recumbency on the davenport.

Lane gave a tight smile. "Good one."

"Thank you," Godfrey nodded. "So. What's on your mind."

"Well," Lane said. "Not to put too fine a point on it but beyond my personal fondness for your message I also wanted to come as a bearer of sorts."

Godfrey waited. He raised his head slightly, looking through the bifocals he didn't need.

Lane said, "You've been evangelizing, if that's the word, against the superheroes for a while now and not only do I personally agree with you, but I want to let you know there are people in positions of power who also agree with you."

Godfrey only said, "Yes, I know."

Lane looked around. "Are we, ah—"

"Of course."

"There is a Task Force dedicated to the missions the Justice League won't prosecute. Call it wetworks, call them what you like. Missions of a certain moral turpitude the superheroes can't by their nature be party to."

"Can't or won't."

"Both?"

"Ah."

"This task force is headed up by a woman named Waller, who has no great love for the super-hero community."

"Much like you."

Lane waited. "Yeah."

"And she sends their worst offenders to die on suicide missions?"

Lane nodded.

"That's the most deliciously evil thing I've ever seen!" Godfrey threw his head back and laughed.

"Mister Godfrey—"

"It's all right, Major. I see it in your eyes. You feel like you hate them. Not just the bad guys but these heroes too, these, what, Legends? Let me tell you—your hate is justified. What have they ever done for us? A few destroyed cities every Wednesday, creating or contributing to a culture of violence. But this is academic isn't it, Major. And so you come asking for my permission, and my willingness to join you. And you want to wipe out not only the heroes but this suicide squad as well. You only need world enough and time."

Lane shifted. And felt Godfrey's eyes upon him. Even through the Larry King glasses. He felt the eyes, the burn of them. His face felt flushed, and his skin hot.

What is—

"I'll join you. You already know it, you can see my thoughts as well as I can see yours. These superheroes…their time is up. It won't happen today, or tomorrow, but soon. Just like your Sixties. It will take the leaders of the free world decades to unravel it all. Do you understand."

"Yes…"

"Tell me everything."

Godfrey's eyes—Godfrey's words—Godfrey himself—burned in Lane's mind.

 _Do this Samuel anti-life justifies it_

"Amanda Waller," Lane said. Blurted it out, a spasm of fire, of true belief.

"So you've said."

"Lex Luthor. Paul Westfield. Wade Eiling. Ah—certain loyalists at DEO, FBI, and CIA."

Godfrey breathed. Smoothed himself out. Looked back at Lane and his jaw was slack a little. He fixed it and said, "Major," like he was coming on to him. "Say no more. We can do business."

"I'm very glad to hear that."

"But my time is limited," Godfrey said. "I'm afraid my message here is just what the home office might call suggestive selling. Eventually it will falter, and I'll be summoned home for the next project. So. Here is what will happen. I will take your message of friendship back to my master. And we will not speak again. Not for many years."

Lane looked sad.

"But," Godfrey said and smiled, the lips curling away on his face, "When we do. It will be on the occasion of ending the age of heroes. Once and for all."

* * *

 **Department of Extra-Normal Operations  
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Field Office**

DATE: 3-15-2002

Background: An anonymous tip from our Portland Bureau indicated threats via letter, sent to Oliver Queen, chair of Queen Technologies roughly occurring around the time of President Luthor's inauguration in January 2001. For cross-referenced cases with the FBI please consult the attached summaries for known offender Kaczynski, also known as the Unabomber. Back to the issue: Queen's alter ego and attendant superhuman activity, colloquially the Green Arrow, is known to us, which is how we intercepted the information in the first place. However, the receipt of anonymous threats connotes a similar pathology to the Kaczynski case and causes action.

Comorbidity: LexCorp had been conducting Metahuman research as far back as 1986. This isn't new information, but no one in the super community or in the intelligence community has, as I've discovered, figured out what he's done with it. Within the available research covering the major members of the Justice League, two civilians are also named—Jesse Wright & Allen O'Neill (discussion forthcoming)—but only in a single line of text. We were able to access his servers and copy available files on Queen, a summary of which follows, with citations attached:

Luthor's file on Queen launches into five terabytes worth of biography, family history, social survey, history of Starling City, history of the Queen family, history of his known associates, history as a solo actor and with the Justice League, cross-referenced files on Hal Jordan, a detailed history of Queen's most well-known accomplice Roy Harper, as well as a philosophical consideration of superhuman activity.

However, mixed in with the survey of Queen's existence, I found the letters themselves. Letters we believe were sent by the aforementioned Jesse Wright (see attached profile but here's a summary: at the time of this writing he is a High School freshman in Starling City, California). Retrieval has indicated a large portion of blacked out data was sent to Wright via various payphones in the Starling metro area from what we believe is the President's personal cellular telephone.

Bear with me:

Exhibit A: Letter 1. "I have information you may be interested in hearing. Roy Harper. Respond for more." No response from Queen.

Letter 2 includes a polaroid of Harper's partially-desiccated corpse. Of note is a gunshot wound in the forehead; forensics we retrieved from Metro SCU did not speak to this injury: "What was he doing there? Come clean about your adventures away from the Left Coast."

Letter 3. From Queen: "Prove it."

Letter 4, from Wright: "Harper KIA, Random crime or premeditated—and what if they finger you? You disagreed with one another, the violence is well-published. Come clean."

No correspondence from Queen for three weeks. We assume he's thinking it over some more during this time. Cross-reference: there are no major meta-threats in Starling, and—casting a wider net for context—none in Seattle or Portland or much of the Northwest. We assume, discussed in the cross-referenced file codenamed _Iliupersis,_ that meta-activity is on a sharp decline during this period as well as Queen's own focus on his civilian life as opposed to functions as the Green Arrow. Meta-profiling work sampled from Dr Ashley Zolomon (see summary, attached) corroborates a history of such obsession in Queen and his alter-ego. Digression: secret identities are a moot point in the discussion; DEO and Luthor's own research gained over a series of years rendered that particular mystery pointless. Wright's letters are leading Queen to a place, but it's not about unmasking. That would be too simple, I believe.

Letter 5 is Queen's reply: "You know who I am?"

Wright replies in Letter 6: "Doesn't matter. Find justice for Roy. And for Luthor's other victims."

Letter 7, Queen to Wright: "I demand to know who you are."

Letter 8:, Wright to Queen, not three days later: "The Ghost of Christmas Future. You sent Roy to LexCorp didn't you."

Letter 9, Queen back: "No. He went on his own."

Letter 10, Wright back: "To finally 'get' LL? You must have known it wouldn't work. Why send him to his death."

Letter 11, Queen back: "Enough. You're someone who knows me. Who are you."

Letter 12, Wright: "Someone who wants Luthor done in too. Reasons are my own. I'll give you a goodwill gift. A name. Research it and hit me back."

Letter 13, Queen out. He must have finally started paying attention to the stamp and Postal indicia: "You're in Starling. You're some punk kid thinks he's someone. Fess up."

Letter 14: "Maybe. Look into this would you? Melissa Dugan. She worked at LexCorp after the IPO in '85. Where is she now?"

No correspondence exists from Queen or Wright after this. We presume Queen got spooked and dropped everything—especially as we've seen no movement from either Wright or Luthor on the matter.

As to investigating Wright for malicious intent, I leave that to people assigned to do so. If any. Although, for the record, DEO has sat on a list of dead people known to be connected to Luthor in one way or another going back thirty years, and top of that list is Dugan herself. I wouldn't be surprised if Wright sent these names out to Queen as well, in an attempt to steer him someplace Luthor wants him to go.

Here are the names from the DEO file:

Melissa Dugan  
Gretchen Kelley  
Peter Sands  
Sydney Happersen  
Sasha Green  
Dabny Donovan  
Paul Westfield  
Frank Berkowitz  
Contessa Erica Alexandra del Portenza.

I undertook a brief microfilm search into the names and have summarized findings as below. Forensic summaries are attached & cross referenced.

—All but two—Westfield and Berkowitz—were at some point on LexCorp's payroll. Dugan was the earliest-employed among the list: dismissed from LexCorp in 1985 and found dead in her suburban home later that year.

Gretchen Kelley was Luthor's private physician for approximately six years in the late 80s before dying of aneurysm in 1992—however, competing information from an anonymous source points to her serving consecutive life sentences in Pena Duro prison in Santa Prisca.

Peter Sands we have working for the _Metro-Ledger_ in Features 1986-1989 before divorce and alcoholism drove him away from high society. Found dead in his apartment in 1990, with Clark Kent's name written in Sands' own blood. Dismissed out of court 1990, by Luthor's personal attorney Joanna DaCosta.

Donovan was arrested for illegal cloning experiments in 1991 and died in a prison riot at Stryker's Island that same year.

Happersen died in 1993—competing sources place it as radiation poisoning or a nameless blood disease, possibly HIV; Taiwanese relatives claimed his body soon after death and the matter was considered closed.

Berkowitz—killed during a speech in Centennial Park in Metropolis, unknown assailant, 1997.

Sasha Green, Luthor's personal trainer for a number of years (at least 86-93) was found dead in mid-August 1993 in a LexCorp subbasement. Our research points to a settlement with the family, and no other information exists on the matter.

The Contessa del Portenza—a wedding certificate between her and Luthor exists from the island of Corto Maltese from 1997, but no other corroborating information has been found. Could be a ruse. Could be a super-joiner, wanting to hook up with Luthor's bank account.

Finally, Westfield: a civilian director for the same genetics firm Donovan claimed to have controlled, Project Cadmus, which has since been subsumed under the DEO umbrella. Directly responsible for the creation of Project: Rebirth—aka "Superboy"—as a genetic donor. Westfield has not been seen since an apocryphal sighting in Centennial Park in 1993.

Lots of death in a short time frame. Not the issue.

The issue is Wright feeding the information to Queen in an attempt to draw him out. More authentically troubling is my growing belief that this action comes from the president himself, as part of some gambit to fight the superhuman community using the full power of the federal government—starting with Queen and ending, putatively, with the removal of super-powered enemies entirely.

This concludes the preliminary report.

Respectfully submitted,

[signed]

Cameron Chase

* * *

1993.

Wright-Patterson Air Force Base sat too close to metropolitan centers. Not that anyone would really call Dayton a metropolitan center—too much decay, too many drugs, not enough opportunity—but it was a city none the less and carried a Malthusian problem of close quarter and the inability of certain segments of the government to do their work in the quiescence they preferred. The factories were gone. The good old days were gone. The rest of the state might be comfortable with agrarian peace but not this town. What remained in the Dayton area, having subsumed quaint Fairborn in its ranks in a curious mixture of dead industry and gentrification, seemed a sleepy populace latching onto the base for disposable income, comfortable in their lives of quiet desperation. Not un-industrial—almost like Cincinnati, which he knew ancestrally from a covert experiment below the Central Parkway, and its outspread grime: the detritus and forgotten places that scared the soul and caused the eyes to look away, anywhere, any safe place.

So it was an Air Force Base. Known, and unknown. It harbored a flight wing as cover for clandestine military experiments on the order of what Lane had come to investigate—it harbored the shell of a working base as cover for other activities the government undertook below ground. He thought about the rumor of aliens in cold storage on site. He thought about it as the Land Rover crested the freeway and made for the base.

Aliens. If only they knew.

Well, he supposed they did. They had the idea of an alien—one that looked like them and wore red underpants. The truth was more difficult. Lane was more difficult. He understood the world in a way few do. It was what endeared him to Luthor, who saw things similarly. A chaotic universe in need of a strong hand. A spinning death cult that needed to see the value of life. For Major Lane, life and death weren't just opposites, or things that happened to humans. Nothing so procedural. No. They were philosophical opposites. To be countenanced. He remembered his father dying: sitting there watching the functions of his body slowly stop. Like parts of an engine failing. One by one. Death was chaos, organ failure, oxygen deprivation and the slow desiccation of a great man. Indiscriminate. To be fought. And life, then, was to be controlled. By force if necessary.

Of course, Lois was Lois about such a thought. She broke free, tired and resistant of what he was trying to tell her.

Live free. The old motto. Or die.

Together, Godfrey had once said, we all can live forever.

The Land Rover passed through the gates. They came upon a row of great hangars, all painted white and a long wing of C-17s, flat grey behemoths, angled and pointing towards Fairborn.

Lane stepped out and smoothed his uniform as he did. Squinted in the afternoon sun, orange clouds streaked across the sky. He looked at the far hangar and there, stepping lightly in a perturbation, was a rail of a man in a white lab coat, Coke bottle glasses and a bowl haircut flapping in the wind. Lane took a breath.

"Doctor Happersen."

"Major Lane!" The way he said it. So harried, so shaken.

"I was told you were expecting us."

"Yes, yes," Happersen said. "I'm afraid just not so soon."

Lane waved a hand. Started for the hangar and Happersen fell in line alongside. "Can I see it?"

"Whu—the weapon?"

Lane cocked his head. Beheld Happersen for a moment and wondered where Luthor found him. He carried himself like a belligerent crazy person, the agitated sense of the over-shoulder look. Someone always watching him. Luthor must have destroyed his self-esteem. Among other things.

"Yes," Lane said. Slowly. For emphasis. "I'm told it's dead?"

"Quite," Happersen said. "Killing Superman, we think, really, ah, well, really took it out of it."

Lane made a face.

They went into the hangar, which held nothing beyond a single elevator shaft in the center. Happersen motioned toward the platform and once they were on, it began descent.

Lane looked up and watched the sidewall lights blur into three lines. He sighed.

Happersen was tapping something into his Newton. Lane crossed his arms. The silence was—

"Major Lane."

"Yes?"

"May I ask who sent you here?"

Lane looked back at him. "You might."

Happersen nodded and went back to his Newton. Eventually the lift slowed and stopped in an open laboratory carved into the earth, sediment and dyed limestone for walls. Black, with green effects for a neon lighting. Lane took it in. Cleansuits walking about, from lab table to lab table.

"I don't pretend to know what this is," he said.

"Of course not," Happersen said. "But we live in strange days, don't you agree? Four Supermen on the streets and who knows if any of them is the real thing. That is the purpose of your visit, is it not? Over and above what Westfield feels is appropriate?"

In that moment they locked on each other. Neither scared—Lane did not scare easy, and Happersen must have found his spine on the way down, inspired perhaps by the comfort of this lab. This one was curious, studying Lane as much as Lane studied him.

"Yes," Lane said. "Show me it."

They walked. The far end of the cavern was a tube filled with a green liquid, same as the rest of the lab. Lane knew the tableau. He felt as if he'd seen this in some film. Ahead lay the monstrosity.

Doomsday.

A hulking grey mass, rock and alien muscle, inert and entombed in this green death. Arms twisted at its sides. Dead eyes were glassed over and stared up at nothing. The mouth, scabbed over on one side, and drooped seizure-like to one side.

Lane walked up to the tube and laid a hand on the glass. Stared into the dead eyes. It looked—

Like it was screaming.

"What is the point of keeping it here?"

"Science."

Lane glanced at him. He said, "Luthor was right. You care only for your own schemes."

Happersen did that slow nod again. He started pacing.

"Maybe. But bringing Life out of Chaos has always been the mission of Project Cadmus, Major Lane. Fear, loneliness, desperation—they have created an untenable world. We believe that we as gifted stewards have the power to steer the world away from such barbarism."

"Barbarism," Lane said, his eyes still on the monster.

"You want to know if it can be revived?"

"How soon can you have something?"

"You won't care for the answer, Major."

"Tell me."

"Years."

Lane looked at him.

"Five," Happersen said. "At least. Cellular degeneration is too egregious. We're working on synthetic samples but to give you what you want would take time."

In five years he'd face retirement. Golf, and whisky, and the sweetness of going where no one needed him. It was a dream. But—

To dream of a life beyond this, beyond the uniform—

Lane only breathed, staring at the dead animal in the tube. He felt to some extent he was looking at the Devil himself.

And was he staring back?

* * *

 ** _Continued..._**


	13. Animals

_From the Office of the Vice President_  
 _Number One Observatory Circle_  
 _Washington DC 20008_

15 April 2001

Dear Lex,

I hope you forgive the impertinence of using your first name. Rest assured it will be Mister President hereafter. I merely wanted to extend my thanks for our conversation last week, and if it will please the physicians at Walter Reed and their medical reports which they have conducted by now of all Cabinet-level positions, I will gladly submit to psychological profile. I have also sent a copy of this letter to the Surgeon General, the Attorney General, and the Speaker of the House. As you are no doubt aware, I value transparency at all levels of government—and my own position should not be immune to inspection. I look forward to working with the Surgeon General in the days and weeks ahead on selection of a suitable physician. My thanks to you as always for your friendship and oversight.

Kindest Personal Regards,

Pete

* * *

Midnight at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.

He stood alone on the tarmac, a line of hangars far to his left side, and on his right a rolling green landscape that stretched towards the city, butting up to a chainlink fence and a conglomeration of Cape Cods beyond. Those houses, he thought, squat pastel affairs in which people probably lived in their whole lives. Lives...in which they made do. In which a simple city life with familiar cozenages sufficed. They were happy enough.

He frowned.

There was a time before, when he might have wanted such a thing. Now he wasn't sure.

Rick Flag was forty-four.

He felt old.

He had been in the Air Force in one capacity or another since he was seventeen. Eighteen, officially, but he had gone to the recruiters a month before his birthday.

He thinks of it often. "Give me a chance," he says and the officer just points at the door. Rick looks at it and back at the officer and says, "I want to prove myself." The officer bothers to look at him. He says, "Millions of guys like you do. Do you know what happens to them?" Rick shakes his head. The officer says, "They die. They get a rifle, they think it's a license to kill, and they stand up too soon in the redzone and I have to write their mothers. Tell them Johnny never even fired his goddamn gun." "You sound jaded," Rick says. The officer says, "Maybe. Realistic. What about you?" "I want to prove myself," Rick says. "I feel like—" "Like what?" "Like I can't be a man unless I join." The officer leans back in his seat and judges Flag. "No." "No?" The officer says you heard me and he goes back to his paperwork. And Rick spends the next month going down there. Every day, nine to five. He sleeps under the eaves some nights, when he can get away with it, using the _Fawcett City Post_ for covers. He sleeps and doesn't eat and he waits to turn eighteen. One day, the officer brings him out a ham sandwich and Rick devours the thing. When he's done he looks up and the officer says, "Let's talk."

He thought—

Well, he thought about a lot of things.

And out of a life that seemed to stretch far away from him, away from his control, he thought about himself. Like always. He thought about himself, sitting on the stoop outside that recruiter's office. Waiting for an explanation. Waiting for absolution.

That would never come.

He wanted to join and prove himself. He wanted to save people, or made up a lie that he wanted to. He even told June the lie. And she believed him—a sick codependency. And now here he was pushing old age. And what to show for it?

He supposed—

Maybe the Squad was good for that.

After all. If you die, you die young.

Sometimes, Waller told him once, surviving is the hard thing.

He breathed.

He thought about himself.

Because now he was all he was ever going to have.

The Squad, gone. Waller, elevated—gone away professionally, whatever collegial relationship they had, gone. June…

June was gone too.

He was alone.

Administrating this base alone.

He looked up. Midnight. It's better this way. Air traffic is low, and the city is quiet too. Less of a chance for "questions" or "concerns" or any of their bullshit opinions they think they have. A ring of floodlights surrounded the tarmac and this particular hangar. Official release for tomorrow would speak to a late-hours training exercise. It would keep them quiet.

He breathed. Fixed his eyes on the stars for a long moment.

June. The sky is so beautiful. You'd love it. I swear you would.

Eventually the hustle of the base came back to his senses. The wind scoring the tarmac, distant voices. It all felt so right. And yet.

He looked over to one side. Straightened up.

Doctor Teng, Happersen's slightly more competent replacement, and a fleet of the Cadmus cleansuits were wheeling out a circular chrome slab. In the flashes between the floodlights, he saw it. And the thing upon it.

He knew it only through word of mouth. Waller had forbidden the use of the Squad back in ninety-three in fighting the creature called Doomsday—unnecessary waste of life, she'd said, to which Harkness bitched in his Australian brogue: "Wut are we then, ey?"

Flag chuckled, surprising himself. And watched Teng direct the Cleansuits and the slab toward the nearest C-17.

He supposed he should be closer. Actually supervising. But—

He had seen the visuals, years before. If that thing was any kind of alive, distance would be the only defense. It could break out of whatever restraints the Cleansuits had made for it. Kill them all and jump the hell away to go kill Superman again. It seemed drawn to him in the first place, from what Flag could tell. Maybe it would try again. If it could.

Who knew.

He breathed.

And made a face when he saw Teng running up to him.

"Colonel!" he yelled and waved one hand.

Flag put on his work face. He said, "Yes?"

"Message from Washington," Teng said. "They want to express their thanks for the orderly transition and ask that you do not speak of this action on any official record."

So that was that, then. He nodded. "Anything else?"

"Just that we will be vacating your base within the next twelve-twenty-four hours. Cadmus will relocate to an offshore concern."

"That'll be fine, Doctor, thank you."

Internally, Flag exploded. Get the hell off my base. Your superiors exiled me here. To shut me up. Mission accomplished. Now get out.

Teng nodded and turned and rushed back to the C-17.

Flag watched them close it up. Watched it taxi down the runway. He waited as the night closed in upon him and he stuck his hands in his pockets, not regulation at all, and stiffened his joints to cope with the night chill.

He watched the C-17 until it took off, angling over Fairborn in a shallow arc and heading east.

He stood there for a long while afterward.

He was thinking of June. And looking up at the stars.

The sky is so beautiful. You'd love it.

* * *

In Gotham City, Wayne Enterprises held its quarterly board meeting.

The usual detritus of it all bored Bruce Wayne. And it always had. He knew the inner workings of his company better than perhaps Lucius did—which in his own estimation meant he could sleep through these things. Doing so came at a cost, like it always did: the Board would take his disinterest at face value and every so often the idea of a vote-off was considered. Was considered—in that bland, past tense way, where no Board member would officially make the motion but rather bring the idea up in committee. But then it was usually dropped. Daggett or someone would back off when challenged. And Bruce would go back to sleep. And dream.

Dream of the past. The future—or at least the one he imagined was coming.

Dream of mistakes, and successes. Of old friends, new alliances, and—

Slowly, and surely—perhaps even irrationally, he was starting to think—

Father.

—That he couldn't remember them.

But then.

How could he forget.

He tried to think of Thomas Wayne as he was in life. Just one man. Powerless, human, afraid. Of course when you're eight everyone is huge and you create myths to explain your world and the people in it.

Which meant—

In Bruce's memory, Thomas was just—

Larger than life. Like fathers are.

It was a joyful childhood. One of freedom and play but also duty, responsibility, the knowledge that the station into which Bruce had been born did not mean it was to be a free life. No. We have a social chair, Thomas used to say. We have a responsibility to make Gotham better than we find it.

The sound of the board meeting around him, Bruce stared out the window at the Vauxhall Opera House. He remembers it.

Late at night. Alfred turns the lights down and Thomas and Martha are with Bruce by the fireplace, after the _Grey Ghost Action Hour_ on WGBS, after teeth-brushing and vespers. They are winding down, and telling stories—Father always has these amazing stories from when he was a kid and Gotham was bright—Bruce sits, enraptured. He listens to Thomas' story about meeting the Green Lantern in his own youth. In those days Alan Scott carries the light. Thomas tells him how he met Alan Scott, and got caught in a tussle between the Lantern and a bad man named The Icicle. Thomas tells him how Alan Scott stopped The Icicle and left young Thomas with some parting words. Words I'm going to tell you now, Bruce, and I hope you remember them. Yes father, I will, I promise. Thomas says: if you see something going wrong, son, don't turn your head. You face it. Can you do that for me, Bruce?

He breathed. Looked out the window. Grey clouds low over the city.

He looked back at the Board. Daggett was pointing at a pie graph on a Powerpoint. Bruce rolled his eyes. Powerpoint is boring. Daggett droned: "…And our defense contracts are up over last year, and we're just barely into third quarter, so, good news, yes?"

The Board nodded along.

Bruce made a face.

He knew his company. How could he not? He knew of the Applied Sciences division in subbasement twenty-seven, but it seemed like everyone knew about that. That was where the work of the Batman came to be: the technological accoutrements that allowed Bruce Wayne to exercise his war on crime.

And it was a war. He knew this, too.

Very probably a war he would never win.

Because he was just one man. Powerless. Human. Afraid.

He thought of Jason.

And Dick. And Tim.

And his parents.

Failure, alongside success.

Father.

I confess this business with Luthor has affected me. More than I think I care to admit. Even after al these years and all I've done. Because whatever he does, or doesn't do—to his city, his people, the planet—

None of it compares to the torment he puts Clark through.

Clark is a good man, Father. He's strong and wise. And we don't agree on everything but he is my friend. I have a responsibility to help him. And a responsibility to resist Luthor. You taught me to face my problems head on and I fear there may be no bigger problem now than Lex Luthor. Running this country. He hasn't changed, Father. The veneer of respect is worse than his true face. I know there are people who love him. He gives their kids scholarships, he creates opportunity and wealth—Metropolis would not be what it is without him. But that's not enough.

He is everything wrong with us.

And he must be stopped.

The Joker.

Lex Luthor.

They're animals, father.

Animals.

I can't let that pass.

Those contracts. The Department of Defense is our largest buyer, by a wide margin. Over and above other private security firms in the country and our NATO allies who all wear some variety of WayneTech body armor.

Bruce breathed.

Father. Forgive me.

He stood.

Daggett must have seen him stirring because his own speech dropped off and he just watched. They all turned to behold him. Lucius, Tate, even Ted Kord there in his honorary spot.

Daggett said, "Mister Wayne?"

"I'd like to put a motion on the floor."

They all waited. Eyes went among each other.

Lucius nodded.

"That we immediately suspend our military contracts with the government."

The room exploded. They knew the truth. Even though it was a motion, it was nominal at best, and once he made up his mind on something Bruce Wayne rarely changed. The contracts would be nullified by the end of the day.

Daggett seemed to take a deep breath, Miranda Tate and Lucius leaned into each other and started whispers, others started shouting. The same trope it had been with his old dismissal calls. Someone shouted out, "you don't know what you're doing!" Someone else: "Foolish!" Someone else had the temerity to say, "this is not how Thomas would've done it!" Ted Kord looked lost.

Bruce raised his voice above them.

"This company cannot stand to do business with Lex Luthor any longer."

"Bruce," Daggett said.

Lucius spoke up. "Bruce, those contracts are a significant part of our revenue. Beyond losing the hard dollars, the government could sue us out of existence if we walk on a contract."

"I know," Bruce said. "I'll go to Washington myself if I have to, and explain it. I don't want to be in the company of death any longer."

Then he buttoned his suit and was gone. The board stayed squabbling. Lucius seemed to take point and called for order.

Ted Kord leaned forward and interlinked his fingers, staring down at the table. He looked around with a frown. He thought of his own father, and how things might have been different were he still around. Well. Maybe a lot of things would be different.

Downstairs, Bruce was already in his Lamborghini and driving home.

To his father's house.

* * *

Luthor.

Was standing alone behind the desk. Staring out the window. It was a habit he developed in the early days, really when LexCorp was only himself and Lois on the top floor of the _Planet_ building. It cleared his mind. Standing. Observing.

He preferred Metropolis to this.

They were beneath him in Metropolis. Here he was on their level. A conscious choice, no doubt, by the ancient architects of this place.

Ancient by his measure—the only measure that mattered these days.

He was looking out the window, one of the three tall affairs directly behind the Resolute desk. He'd had a section of the landscaping cut away so he could observe the South Lawn all the way down to the fence. The midday sun shone in, beaming across his face. He felt its warmth and imagined it was how Superman felt—basking under this yellow sun like the poor, stupid reptile he was.

He frowned. Down at the fence and Constitution Avenue beyond it. There were always small groups of people down there, crouching on the stonework, leaning against the ironwork fence. One caught his eye. From this distance it was hard to make her out. She looked old. Hunched there. Away from the others. He saw a square, no, a box, next to her. Some rollaway luggage perhaps.

Behind him the door opened. He turned and saw Pete, and Mac behind him.

"Pete."

"Sir, they're ready."

"Let's do the meeting here."

Silence.

Pete said, "uh, they're all in the Situation Room…uh…sir."

Luthor turned.

He just glowered at Pete. But it was more than that. More than a hard stare or a dirty look.

Luthor was burning into Pete's soul.

Pete shuffled from foot to foot. "They're waiting, sir."

"The Joint Chiefs," Luthor said and went for the garden door, "serve at my pleasure. They can wait in hell for all I care. Mac, walk with me."

"Sir," Pete said. "Lex!''

Luthor was gone, Mac following him and Mac's red pinstripe doing its damndest to contain his frumpy mess of body. They were walking down across the lawn, Luthor deep in his Purposeful Walk, the one that took about three feet to each stride, his arms swinging forward and back as he went, his eyes narrowed, his face unmoving. Stern. All the synonyms. The Secret Service gang followed behind him and Mac in a wide flying-V—they had come to understand his systems. Had come to understand that look in his eye.

A Great White Shark hunting.

And so they kept their distance.

Followed him on the far crest of the Ellipse. Past the basketball court, currently in the process of removal. Down to the wrought-iron fence. Luthor turned back and there was Mac, breathing hard but still with him.

"Still with us, Mac?"

Mac huffed. He said, "Doing my best, Mister Lewthor."

Luthor looked at him. "Take a note, Mac. I want a sidewalk installed. My office door down here to the fence."

"Taking a note," Mac said and pulled a tattered notepad from his back pocket.

Luthor turned his head and looked at the long fence row, and a gaggle of protestors beyond it. Some holding signs—he thought he made out a "Not My President" one with some decent handiwork to it. Another said "Investigate Lex!"

The sun was setting. Perhaps in other places, normal people went home and made dinner and spent time with their families. But these people.

"They hate me," he said. Looked at Mac. "Don't they?"

Mac seemed to consider it. "Well, you know, Mister Lewthor, they're kids. Probably don't know any better, right?'

Luthor scowled. These people. They come here. Spend their whole day here. The Luthor they think they know. And the Luthor nobody knows.

Lois, he thought. They're like you.

"Look at what we've done, Mac. That is your name isn't it?"

"Well," Mac said. "Nathaniel Mackelvaney. But that sounds so...you know."

Luthor scowled and looked back at the distant crowds. He said, "It's been three months and we've done so much. We've put a ten year moratorium on fossil fuels. We balanced the budget. We started skills training and placement options in Coal Country for jobs that will die and resources that won't renew. We've put a cap on emissions. The Supreme Court is about to legalize same-sex marriage. We're even working on metagene detectors so kids born different won't have to face persecution, run away from home and die on the streets—they can get the help they need, Mac. Do you see it?"

Mac scratched his head. "I think so, Mister Lewthor."

"People," Luthor said and his voice drifted. "Get ensconced. In their lives. They think they have a good handle on things. But do you want to know the secret of the universe, Mac?"

Mac nodded.

"Change," Luthor said. "Always difficult. Always worth it."

He observed the protestors for a moment, and still thought of her. One seemed to notice and slapped another's shoulder, and together they gestured toward Luthor. He looked away.

He turned and found her. Far down across the other side of the fence, almost at the corner of Executive Avenue. He walked slowly toward her, and as he neared she did not move. She looked like she was reading. He breathed and approached. She was on the white stone, kind of sitting and crouching on it. She was a bigger woman. A long burgundy cloak, a shawl, hung about her. Her hair was alternately grey and black and in a loose perm—a style she had perhaps made for herself decades ago and kept up ever since. He saw her hands, her arms, tanned and weathered, one of them propped up on one leg cradling her head, hanging low there and studying a tattered paperback on her lap. As he approached he slowed down. Crouched down. He stuck one hand through the fence line and touched her forearm. It struck him as the action of a convict penitent.

He stared at his own hand on her beaten leather skin, and—

Perhaps we are both prisoners.

"Hello."

She was slow to react. He kept his eyes on her and said it again.

She looked up at him. Like she was seeing another person for the first time.

Her eyes.

Bright blue within a face as weathered as the rest of her.

She said, "Hello," and it came as a cracked whisper.

"I was out for a walk and noticed you. I hope you'll forgive the intrusion."

She made a face. Looked around and back at him and said, "It's…not a problem."

"I'm Lex."

Those eyes rolled in their sockets. She was looking for meaning. "I'm…"

"Surprised?"

She looked away.

He looked at Mac.

Mac was shocked. His face was blanched, his jaw slacked. What was going on?

"Lex?"

"I'll be fine, Mac. Please excuse us."

Luthor looked back at the woman.

She looked at him and looked away. Down at the sidewalk. He looked at it too and frowned.

He said, "You're not a protestor?"

"No, sir."

"May I ask why you're here?"

Her lips quivered and her head—

Kind of—

Bobbed. In place.

The wrinkles, the fatness of her face. It all reminded him of someone. Someone he'd spent a lifetime trying to forget.

"I'm homeless, Mister Luthor."

He frowned.

"I am sorry. May I ask what happened?"

She shook her head but did it in an understated way. It barely moved, and the bags of her eyes fluttered. He breathed, and let the moment pass. He fished a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and waved one of the agents over.

"This is Special Agent Mitchum. And here is a hundred dollars. There is a shelter in Metropolis I'd like you to check out, if you don't mind, ma'am."

"Beverly."

"Beverly," Luthor said. Name her. Give her power. "Does that sound like something you can do?"

She looked up at him. Tears in her eyes.

He cut himself off from feeling the moment. He had cut himself off from so many emotions over the years. And yet.

Deep down, hidden in the prison of his mind there lingered a thought.

He put his hand on her shoulder.

"I hope you can get the help you need, Beverly."

He patted her shoulder twice. Stood away and looked back at the White House.

Mitchum started taking her towards the side buildings and the tennis court. She motioned to Mitchum to stop, and turned back to Luthor.

"God bless you, sir."

They locked eyes after she spoke and held a gaze.

He wasn't sure he had words for it.

He nodded once, and Mitchum started to walk with her again.

Pete was at his side, this time with a note. Luthor took it.

Read it.

"When did he decide this?"

"I'm told the board meeting just ended."

Luthor scowled. Crumpled the note and threw it on the grass. He looked away and clenched his jaw, his fists. Contain yourself, Lex.

"Call a meeting."

"Cabinet?"

"Yes. I want you and Mac there, as well."

Then he turned for the White House. His house. He stopped and turned over his shoulder. "Pete. Beverly there is going to get some help. See that Mitchum gets her to the Lena Luthor home in Seagate, yes?"

Pete said, "I will. There's something else."

"Yes?"

"Your Doctor Teng reports. Package is ready for delivery."

* * *

After midnight, on a distant tarmac at Joint Base Andrews, Lex Luthor stood alone. The Secret Service detail, Mitchum and the rest, stayed at the front gate.

This delicate cargo had sat dormant underneath Andrews for eight years. The great Nth-metal slab, upon which the monstrosity was bound, stood next to Luthor. An obscene monument. And now little better than weregild.

So here they were. Luthor and the monster.

He stared at the dead thing on the slab.

Doomsday.

He did not know where it came from. He suspected Krypton. It stood to an ironic reason that for all of Superman's altruistic bluster there would one day come a machine of pure destruction from the same place. A counterbalance for the good the alien purported to do. On the occasion of mutual death with the Man of Steel, Cadmus had taken the beast and put it in deep storage at their xenobiology facility in Ohio. Oh it came back to life—the surviving Cleansuits were as surprised as anyone—and rampaged on a dead world in another dimension before plummeting back to Earth dead on Ryker's Island. Cadmus took possession again, and the idea then was still to get rid of it fast.

It was Luthor who provided a depository.

An old colleague, from that dead world. Which mean no small amount of retribution was in play, as well.

Luthor's predecessor did not know Doomsday's status or where it was. And certainly not of Cadmus' plan with it. Come to think of it, only Luthor knew. And Pete, of course. He nodded like a good boy and that was that. Reality was different. Pete wanted to serve, after all. And Luthor told him just enough to make him culpable.

He remembered.

Hearing that this…thing…had killed the alien. All those years ago.

He had murdered Sasha Green in a fit of rage over it: feeling that this dull creature had robbed him of the only thing that would satisfy Luthor.

The death of Superman.

Of course the alien returned. He always did. And now here they were years after death and resurrection and what was there to show for the spent years of all their lives? What indeed.

He got close to the monster on the slab. Laid one hand on its face and frowned when he supposed it felt like rock. A Kryptonian rock. A rock of eternity.

You live.

You're like him.

Aren't you.

He breathed. The night air felt cool and comforting. It reminded him of—

The streets. Dark, dirty, unpopulated, and the city feeling close against him. You'd look up the sky, the stars between the buildings, glimmers of what could be. And you felt alive. And young. When all was possibility and freedom.

And then he felt it.

The breeze stopped.

The long night began.

Behind him the darkness flashed, sizzling with electric bliss. A second sun. Big as life. A tube of white light, white hot energy, rage perhaps from some cosmic beast, yawning from some unknown source.

And then there was new light.

He turned.

He said to the shadow, "As promised."

The shadow stood motionless in the twilight.

It waved a hand and a smaller beast, cringing and hunching there in the shadows, came forth. It took the slab and guided it towards the white light.

The shadow watched it go.

"I assume you're taking Godfrey with you?"

"His work is complete, yes."

"Good."

It stopped.

"I wonder," it said and stared at Luthor. Burning red eyes and black smoke curling away from them. For the briefest of moments it took an imposing and terrible human shape. "When you finally have your world the way you want it, what then? Will they live for you? Will they die?"

Luthor considered it. "I retire. Enjoy the praise of a grateful people."

The shadow turned into the white light. "I see your soul. I feel your every intent. They will never love you. And you will never be free from him."

The shadow dissipated. The white light faded.

Luthor stood alone in the dark.

* * *

 _ **Continued…**_


	14. Black Reign

**Department of Extra-Normal Operations:**  
 _Metahuman Research_  
Volume MCMXL: The Justice Society of America  
Presiding Agent Johns  
20 June 1998

[Transcript truncated for reference]

"...The modern age of superheroes began in the Nineteen-forties. Strange accidents and stranger circumstances turned mortals into champions. The Green Lantern and Flash are some of these examples—detailed sub-files are appended. However, they chose to serve mankind rather than lead it. The Justice Society of America set out to protect the world rather than change it. And by the world I mean their country. Regional priorities. One understands, to some degree. Provincialism has usually been the means and ends of the super-human and these relics from a bygone age present no differently to us. As of this writing the JSA continues their mission of benign prevention, although our psychohistorical models project some degree of challenge and geopolitical strife occurring because of their so-called mission. The relevant data, appended and summarised for reference, comes from work begun in Metropolis circa 1987..."

* * *

In Starling, on a slope at the back of the Marble Cliff cemetery where a black iron fence separated the dead from the Pacific Ocean beyond, Oliver Queen stood at Roy's grave.

It all felt so strange.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter. Thumbed open the envelope and stared at it. In the way you stare at things but don't really read them, like reading the same page over and over again. He felt like he was there now. In that stage of incomprehension. Someone had done a good job getting him there.

He looked at the sky and breathed. Late May and it felt like late November, sickly-looking clouds in the sky, the ocean black and angry there on the horizon. Could an ocean be angry? He wondered. Maybe.

He thought of the island. Maybe it was angry then. Maybe he was. In his way.

Angry enough to escape. And the sea, the skies. The planet itself trying to keep him there. But no. I'm not dying here. I'm not dying at all, even. I'm Oliver Queen and I live forever do you understand me. He screams it at the sky one black evening as a typhoon rolls over him. He screams it. I live.

We.

We live.

Oh Roy.

He laid one hand on the headstone and dug his calloused palm into the stonework until it hurt. He felt old. He was old. Old and angry.

Goddamn it.

Do you remember, Roy?

We used to play.

It was a grand adventure. The Arrow Cave. The Arrow Mobile. Good old days fighting the Cavalier, the Catman, Deadshot, and the goddamn Duke of Oil. And the devil himself. Maybe that was the problem. Scratch that. I know it was. Because who.

Who would do this.

Oh my god. Who would do this? Only the very brave or the very stupid and Roy I just wasn't either one of those. Bruce and Clark can take it. But us. Me. I killed you. Bringing you into this life.

He collapsed before the grave.

I wasted your life. You wanted vengeance—or satisfaction—and I wanted an accomplice. I've wasted my life and—

I sent you to your death.

No.

He remembered.

"I'm going to the inauguration."

"No."

"Try yes."

"You're lucky the debate didn't set him off. No."

"Ollie you don't call my life anymore."

"Like hell I don't, you're my responsibility."

"Whatever."

"Do you know what the hell you're doing!?"

"Tell me!"

"This isn't some asshole in a purple suit—"

"I don't give a shit, I got him in the debate I'll get him here. Christ Ollie we all know what he's done—"

"And Clark is the one who can deal with him, I am not pissing off Lex Luthor when he can bring the establishment down on all of us."

"Ah Jesus you used to be so fearless. Good old Green Arrow who takes on the costumed idiots and Seattle gangbangers all the same, what happened."

"Get old, Roy, see what happens."

"Bullshit, you used to scream into hurricanes man—"

"What do you wanna bet he knows who you are and he's already trying to kill us?"

"We'd know about it!"

"Would we?"

"Oh my god—"

"Would you want to know? If your own government was hunting you? If it wanted to kill you. You've never gone up against Luthor. Jesus, he's not some corrupt alderman, Roy, we can't just barge in and arrest him."

"Ollie."

"He's—"

"What's got you spooked?"

"He knows who we are."

"So?"

"He can ruin us."

"He's just a man, Ollie, what's he gonna do. Put on that stupid armor and play king of the mountain?"

"No it's true. And every six months or so he comes at me with a buyout offer. He dangles it over me. If he was any more serious he'd find some copyright infringement and sue us into bankruptcy. Then…"

"Then what, Ollie, come on."

"…We'd have nothing."

"It wouldn't come to that. He's not insane."

And now, Oliver breathed. Put his head up and breathed. The air was cool and bit at his face. He stuck his hands in his pockets and straightened up. He frowned. It was like he could see everything. And nothing. Everything that was going to happen. And.

He had nothing. Standing here alone in the Marble Cliff cemetery.

Oh Roy.

He knew there were other worlds. He even knew that on one of them he and Bruce stood up to Lex Luthor and killed him.

He bowed his head.

The thought occurred to him once. Months ago. Kill him. There were ways. There was still the Arrow Copter and if he got desperate enough he thought he could run a suicide mission, crash it into the White House, into the People's House, and finish him for good. It would be a mercy. A saving grace. Justice for everything the bald bastard had ever done. To his city, to the planet. To Clark.

He shook his head. Clark wouldn't approve. Mercy would have consequences—even as Ollie contemplated killing Lex Luthor he could not contemplate standing before the Justice League.

He looked around. The cemetery was quiet. He thought it was odd, maybe only a little though, that he seemed to be the only one. Just him and the dead, and the slow breeze in the trees.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came. What to say. What not to say.

I don't know if—

If you're there, Roy.

God I'm so sorry.

I wasted everything.

He felt in his pocket again. The letter was there. He closed his eyes, pressing tears away. He pulled the letter out and read it. Must have been for the millionth time: _To finally 'get' LL? You must have known it wouldn't work. Why send him to his death._

He slumped. Slid it back in his pocket. What—defeatedly? Dejectedly? How furious his mind was working in these moments. Trying to make sense of this.

"Ollie."

He turned.

"How the hell did you do that?"

She smiled and cocked her head. "You used to love it when I snuck up on you."

Dinah.

Then she was next to him, her hands on his hips, his hands on either side of her face. Feeling her warmth. She was calm and perfect, a ship at rest in a storm. Zen. He loved it. And—

"I missed you."

"I know," she said and kissed him. "I wanted to check on you."

"I appreciate it."

She glanced at the headstone. Back at him. "You know he loved you."

"I know."

They pressed their foreheads together.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

"Come home."

He chuckled, a single airy noise. "Is that what checking up is?"

"Ollie, you know how you get on your own."

"…I can't."

She bit her lip. Waited.

"Dinah, there are people behind this."

He took his hands off her. But kissed her in that last transitive moment, as she leaned into it and felt the closeness of him. Then it was over. As soon as it had started.

"I have to go," he said and slid past her.

She spun and said, "Where?"

But he didn't answer.

* * *

Chase.

Had been summoned to DC. The call came late the previous evening. "Get dressed," said Bones. "Car downstairs, private jet to DC." She said, "I didn't realize I rated so highly." He said, "Ditto. But something is up and I intend not to piss off the powers that be. So get your ass down there."

And so she did.

She thought maybe she knew the driver—the private car that picked her up at Reagan and took her into the city. He was oldish, maybe forties, the lines of his face kind of folded together and bunching over the collar of his shirt. Drab yellow under a drab blue solid print. Deliver me, she thought, from 1978. Good old fashioned fiery red hair in a boring crew cut. Tacky gold rimmed aviators. All the bullshit.

She made a face and wasn't aware she was doing it until he looked in the mirror and said, "Something on your mind, Agent Chase?"

She cocked her head. "Do I know you?"

"Jenner," he said.

She regarded him. "Didn't you used to drive for Luthor?"

"Maybe," he said and looked back at the road.

"Hmm." She looked out the window. "Metropolis station, ninety-six to ninety-eight? Cadmus cleanup?"

"Possibly," he said. "Busy couple years."

That much was true.

She hadn't been at Metropolis station in ninety-six, or any time before that. But she knew it. She was aware there was some history with the underground genetics firm Cadmus and one of their science weapons cut loose and started bombing the city. Other sources she didn't bother paying attention to said it was Luthor himself, in a mad fit and trying to destroy his city. Frankly she didn't care. It was both above her and beneath her. Which was to say...she didn't care for Luthor one way or the other. Like everything else. She had a job and created the dossier on his communications and was, as near as she could tell by now, on her way to present it to Waller. But she wasn't enthused about it. Cameron Chase was thirty-five and felt somewhere around sixty: that exhausted lack of care that comes with retirement after a long life. Busy couple years indeed. She had moved out to New York on Bones' recommendation, had taken case after case to such an extent that they all seemed to blend together in her memory. If she thought too long about it all she was hard pressed to say she was earning her keep. Or making much of a difference. It put a chip on her shoulder. Years from now she'll blossom more fully into a hard edge, but for now she's numb. Very numb.

Go here. Go there. Do Bones' bidding. Work the cases.

Cut yourself off.

From feeling things.

It's no kind of life.

She breathed. And slid down in the seat, rested her head on the leather.

And had Jenner's number.

"I'm a Special Agent," she said. "And you didn't even try to hide who you are from me."

"Because it doesn't matter."

"You think so?"

"You would have asked me to pull over by now. Arrested me. Which tells me you're not fishing for evidence through conversation."

"I get the sense someone's tried this with you before."

He seemed to shrug.

She leaned forward. "People believe in him. And yet."

Jenner nodded. "What do you think is worse? That he raised the dead and rigged an election or that people actually voted for him. He's not that bad you know."

"I know," she said. "I'm also aware of other civilian elements working against him."

"Don't care," Jenner said. "I just drive. I hear things. And I keep my mouth shut."

She looked at him.

He looked in the mirror. "Lady, I've known him since we were kids. Lots of people come and go. If you think I'm gonna roll on him for you or some reporter who thinks she runs the planet—it's no contest. My job isn't worth that. Neither is yours."

"Why tell me this?"

"Because I know what you're working on," he said. "Everyone does. And let me tell you. It will go precisely nowhere, lady. No one cares. No one's paying attention."

She looked out the window.

He was right.

There was no greater motivator than human selfishness—and no greater, what, stagnation than apathy. Do what you want, when you want, and get away with it for years because no one is looking. No one cares. She thought about herself. The things she could do. If she wanted to.

Such an alluring and forbidden thought.

And yet. Jenner did not fear her.

It was nice not to be feared for once. Especially in this profession. Men directed it. Men controlled it. To be who she was—a woman—in this field connoted weakness. She combatted it by learning about her field. As much as she could. Learn the issues. Become, what, a policy wonk. Learn their world so completely that you surpass them—and if they challenge, put their entitled asses in place. That's how she was raised.

She remembers what Dad used to say. You take your place, Cameron. Take it from them if you have to.

The car slowed.

Jenner said, "Your stop."

She threw the door open. "You know you have a choice, Mister Jenner. Make it."

It was a lie that came out of nowhere. Or from a very small place where she wanted to part on some badass moment with him, even if it was to feed him a canard. She didn't wait for a reply—and figured she wasn't going to get one. She shut the door and went inside.

The Department of Extra-Normal Operations lived in a nondescript back corner of the Justice Department. Waller's office was at the end of a long hallway with blank stucco walls and her door, simple unmarked cherry wood. Inside, a Herman Miller catalogue. Her personal style. Dim lamps were specks of lights on her desk, the rest of the office unappointed—white walls, a leather davenport against the far wall that looked not so much as even looked at, much less sat in. Chase opened the door and shut it back behind. Waited just inside the threshold. And in the instant before speaking, she beheld her.

Amanda Waller.

Born in East Saint Louis. Rhodes Scholar. PhD in Political Science. Served in three administrations. She was people who knew people. Who knew things.

"Director," Chase said and smiled.

Waller looked right back at her.

If Luthor was a great white shark, Amanda Waller was a wolf. Stalking through a barren forest and when she sees you she just kind of—

Lowers her head.

You stare at her. And she—

Stares.

Right.

Back.

"Agent Chase."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Save the pleasantries," Waller said and stood. She was shorter than Chase. Chase slunk back all the same. "I asked you here to discuss the dossier Bones had you compile."

"Yes," Chase said. "I'll be happy to discuss anything you like, ma'am."

Waller leaned back in her chair. It creaked with the motion. She tented her fingers like a Bond villain and said, "You are working on a story."

"Yes."

"That story has come to an end."

A moment passed. Chase straightened up and looked at the wall behind her.

"What," Waller said. "You want an explanation?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Waller leaned forward. Looked at the blotter on her desk and then back up at Chase.

She said, "I'm going to ask you a question and I'm going to preface it with this: I'm a survivor. I always have been. I survived East Saint Louis. I even survived Oxford. The world's at a tipping point. If you can't sense it I can't help you. But I will tell you I will survive it."

Chase narrowed her eyes.

Waller said, "And I'll survive Lex Luthor. The government continues. Empires rise and fall, statues crumble, but intelligence never dies and that's my real work, Agent Chase. It's the secondary mission of DEO. Luthor knows about it but is more focused on Superman. That's always been his function. Mine, and yours, is to survive."

Chase felt her jaw slack. "Ma'am?"

"The dossier you compiled is going into deep storage. Everyone knows it to be true."

"Then why bury it. With respect, should we not expose the crimes?"

"He is already on his way out," Waller said. "It's a matter of time. There are elements in the government that are more focused on surviving the torrent of his downfall."

Chase rolled her eyes. Waller must have caught it because she said, "It's no joke."

"No," Chase said. "But when you use words like torrent of his downfall I confess it's difficult to take you seriously."

"No one took him seriously," Waller said. "Instead we just took him at his word. And now here we are."

"I don't—"

"His entire life he's only been interested in power. You see the news. You know what's happening in Kahndaq and Bialya. Someone will do something stupid, and things will escalate. Luthor will do the only thing he knows how to do, at which point…all someone has to do is go get Superman. And Superman, Agent Chase…Superman always keeps his word."

Chase breathed.

"So what do we do."

"Like I said. He's just a man and we are playing a longer game. My question is: you're familiar with the agency known as Checkmate?"

"Yes."

"DEO has just absorbed it. A host of other agencies, as well, with a new governing body. Eventually we want to form a new line of defense. A global peace agency that will make the planet safe and help guide it into the twenty-first century. Luthor dreams madly of this and has funded our projects from the beginning. But he and Superman trip over themselves playing dress-up, while the world falls apart around us. Do you understand what I'm saying, Cameron?"

First name basis. Such a thing implied intimacy where Chase knew there was none. Which meant Waller wanted something. Butter her up and she'll do anything you ask. The old abuser's trick. That was it. The mighty iceberg cracked and she allowed herself a sneer. "You're offering me a job."

Waller nodded. "You fit the profile. And you have distinctive insight that will help us."

Chase said, "What do you need?"

"Just your consent," Waller said. "And for you to keep up appearances until such time as it's no longer necessary."

Chase looked at her. "You're so sure?"

It was a loaded question. She knew Superman fairly well from the years of reporting and her own few interactions with him. Same went for Luthor; between the two of them he skewed more unstable. Slightly.

"Statistics," Waller said. "The math between Luthor's actions and Superman's actions point to something significant occurring before the end of the year. By then, we will be removed from the situation."

"Removed."

"I understand it's a sudden change. If you accept, there's a jet waiting for you at Dulles. If not, you return to Philadelphia and you speak nothing of this—or you'll die in Leavenworth. Do you get me, Agent Chase."

Chase straightened up. She wasn't even sure why.

She look Waller in the eye and said, "Yes, ma'am."

Waller lowered her head. Stared right back. And smiled.

* * *

The day started off poorly. By evening it was worse. He was too. He supposed his mood, such as it was, came from the news about Wayne. Almost instantly the news had spread. Luthor had received the note while he was on the South Lawn and by the time he was back in the office it was on every network. He had missed his window of opportunity.

Of control.

He leaned against the Resolute desk and watched coverage of it. They were treating it like the end times. Of course. Predictable. WGBS—Edge and his toads. GCN. The majors. Even his beloved WLEX and the recently promoted Woodburn were beside themselves.

"Wayne Enterprises cuts off military contracts!"

"Wayne snubs Luthor!"

"Crisis in DC!"

And variations thereupon. Lord they were jackals. But well trained. Point them at something and they descended upon it. It was a trick he learned long ago, managing the Slum with the Newsboys. Tell someone something consequential and the word not only spreads but the importance thereof, as well. Reality becomes amplified and in the telling and re-telling of it by voracious talking heads, the truth blurs. Becomes something inelegant and irrelevant. It doesn't matter what you think or How Things Look, what matters is How It Feels, How You Feel.

It was the death of the age of reason.

One Luthor couldn't be too distressed to see go, if for no other reason that his adult life had been built on bringing that death to fruition. To manipulate events in such a way as to not only gaslight but to actively distract from one's true goals. Such an alluring thing.

And of course, after all these years and all his struggles, it was still only his will that mattered. His above all else.

Which is why Wayne's protest vote pissed him off so much.

A protest vote anyway, he thought. Who does that.

More elementally, a protestor.

Is there any lower form of life.

He scowled and pushed into the Situation Room.

Everyone was there. And of course they all stood as he entered. He wave done hand and said, "Sit," with a bite in his voice, as if to some errant dog. And they did. Good boys.

He summoned a smile and sat and surveyed the room. In the millisecond before it all began, he surveyed them.

Pete was there on his left. On his right was the Secretary of State, Albright, a holdover like many others, and a decent guiding hand. There was Jefferson Pierce, the Education Secretary and secretly—although Luthor knew it from years before and his own metahuman research—the also-ran superhero Black Lightning. There was Frank Rock, a decorated veteran of unspeakable renown who served in Europe and routinely criticized Luthor at every available turn. There was Defense Secretary Sam Lane, a good old fashioned Luthor Loyalist. Waller was there, seated far away, a slight reach from Pierce. There was Gore too, the recently confirmed Secretary of Energy. And the rest. He didn't bother remembering them. No one was waiting on the Interior Secretary to change the world, after all.

And there was Mac. Seated against the far window, at Luthor's distant right side. Not at the table but among a row of chairs right by the window and overlooking the Rose Garden. Luthor stole glances at him every few moments. Mac looked nervous.

Albright was on: "…So that's the concern in the area, Mister President. Cascading issues and strong egos in the balance of power."

"It's always been that way," Pete said. "What can we do to combat it?"

"Short of troops on the ground?" Rock asked and glared.

Pete stuck on him and said, "No."

"No."

"Oh Jesus," Pete said. "Every time we have this discussion you think I wanna send troops in, Frank, what the hell."

"Hey! Watch your mouth, son, you wanna go back to Kansas on a stretcher?"

"Frank." The voice was Luthor. He was leaning into the table, supporting his head on one bent arm. His head towards Pete, his eyes angled at Frank. He said, "Drop it."

"I'm not prepared to take troop movements to the Joint Chiefs," Rock said. "I'm not."

"No one is asking you to do that," Luthor said. "I asked you here on a courtesy and courtesy you'll receive. Now let's calm ourselves. Madeline here was saying?"

She cleared her throat and went on: "Well, where do you want to start, Mister President? Bad or worse?"

"Give me bad."

"Bialya," she said. "The Queen Bee is making overtures to Syria and Iraq. Our intelligence points to a potential alliance."

"And?"

Albright seemed to shrug. "Could be something, could be nothing. She's always been unstable. Thinks she can horse trade her way to power."

"One sympathises," Luthor said.

"Instability throws the doors open to outside forces. Intelligence suggests the League of Assassins is in the country attempting a coup. Slow burn, though."

"Hmm."

"What do you want to do?"

Luthor thought about it.

He knew the Demon's Head, the great Ra's al Ghul, ancestrally. And well enough to know that he would—

"Let it ride for now," Luthor said. "Tell our sources to stay quiet and observe. If the League approaches them, give the order to comply. Let's wager the Demon's Head already knows our strength in the area. Maybe we have an ally if things get difficult."

Pete looked at him aghast. "Sir."

"What?" Luthor leveled those horrible green eyes at him. "Would you prefer we back off completely, allow the region to devolve into civil war? No. Watch and wait. Madeline. What next."

"Kahndaq," she said. "Our sources on the ground, coupled with allied intelligence, point to some kind of metahuman coup. Happened within the last twelve hours."

"Why weren't we briefed when it happened?" Luthor asked

"It was deemed second-level," Albright said. "Not an immediate threat."

He waved a hand and said, "Fine. What else."

Albright made a face "Sir, this is where things get rather strange, so I'm going to ask your forgiveness."

"Madeline," Luthor said and grabbed a pen, flipping it around among the fingers of one hand. "I'm what they call a level twelve intelligence. Do not talk down to me."

Albright sighed. Looked at the files in front of her and said, "There's a legend in the region, of a savior, or a messianic figure named Teth-Adam. Only we have reason to believe he's no myth any longer, and certainly no mere mortal. Our intelligence on the ground indicates this Adam figure has come back to lay his claim on his ancestral homeland and protect it from external enemies. Of which, I don't need to tell you, there are many in the region. So we have a meta-problem on top of a geopolitical one."

Luthor breathed and made a face. Stole glances at Lane and Waller as Albright spoke.

"I believe I have some additional insight on the matter," Waller said and flung open a manila folder. "If I may, Mister President?"

Luthor offered his hand and leaned back in the chair. Crossed his arms and listened.

"Where to begin," Waller said. "Well. This Adam figure is no myth, Madeline, I agree. In fact he's very real. DEO has compiled a detailed dossier on his actions, both independently and as they relate to the so-called Captain Marvel in Fawcett City—who is also sometimes referred to as Shazam in the media. Up until now their shared exploits have been apocryphal at best, but, well, here we are in a twenty-four-hour news cycle and everything is reportable."

Rock rolled his eyes. He said, "This is the national interest?"

"Now now," Luthor said. "Patience, General. Amanda."

Pete said, "What's the relationship between this Adam character and Captain Marvel?"

"We believe," Waller said. 'Which is to say, it is DEO's position that the Captain and Adam, colloquially known as Black Adam, have been engaged in some kind of power struggle since time immemorial. There is a detailed mythography in the packets Mac is handing out just now, thank you, Mac, but suffice it to say, it's also DEO's position that their struggle constitutes a national security threat."

"DEO is concerned," Pierce said. "That Adam and Captain Marvel are going to start a war?"

"No, Jefferson." Waller leaned in. "We believe war has already started in Kahndaq. Adam has laid waste to the palace and deposed General Muhunnad. Shiruta burns, Mister President."

"Muhunnad was a dictator," Lane said. "Not a loss."

"A head of state's removal destabilizes the entire region," Albright said. She looked at Waller. "Adam is sending a message."

Waller nodded. "We believe it's one of unity. To the extent we've intercepted his public announcements, he proclaims Kahndaq's borders to be open to those willing to rebuild or seeking asylum."

"Interesting."

"However," Waller said and almost sneered. "All of this pales in comparison to the fact that the Justice Society has seen fit to intervene in the situation."

Luthor smiled.

Pete frowned.

Albright was making notes.

"How long," Pete said. "Have they been on site?"

"Little less than five hours," Waller said.

The room fell silent.

Luthor spoke up. "I don't think Black Adam is interested in making the Middle East safe for democracy. In point of fact I strongly doubt he has anything in mind beyond vengeance or satisfaction."

Pete looked at him. "They're not the same thing, Lex."

"No," Luthor said. "Amanda, what's the allied response to both Adam and the JSA?"

"Wait and see," she said. "Tel Aviv, Cairo, and Riyadh all report cautious optimism."

"Really?" Pierce said.

Albright said, "Yes, this matches State's information as well. Mister President, I think we should support the regime change."

Luthor leaned back in his chair. "One less dictator in a volatile region presents fewer problems for us. Or so we hope. Particularly if his message is conciliation. Sam, what are your thoughts?"

"Well," Lane said. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say I'm not interested in a lengthy deployment. But…if we had to…"

Luthor looked around. Waller nodded. Pierce nodded. Even Frank Rock nodded.

Luthor looked at Mac there against the window. Fidgeting in place, almost. The rumples of his suit ill-fitting as usual. It reminded him of someone.

Someone he knew. Or thought he knew.

Who went around as one person yet presented himself to the world—

In plain fashion. As one of them.

Someone who so desperately wanted to touch humanity. Who was not part of it and so longed to join it. Someone looking in on us as if from a store window.

And perhaps.

Perhaps they saw something they wanted. Or needed.

Something they could—

Some people they could—

Take advantage of. Lord their power over.

And power, he well knew, was not something to be shared.

Gods, he well knew, do not share their power.

They fly around in little capes and—

He took a single sharp breath.

"Mac."

Mac jolted in place. His jowls fluttered as he spoke and he fumbled his hands, a nervous tic Luthor had noticed early on.

"You seem unsettled."

Pete looked at him.

Waller turned and looked at him.

Rock looked at him.

Lane turned and looked at him.

Slowly they all did.

"Are you well, Mac?"

"Y-yes, Mister Lewthor. Heh. Tip-top."

Luthor did not move.

"We've met before, haven't we."

"Eh, I don't think so. Where was it you think we met, Mister Lewthor?"

"My building," Luthor said. "Don't you remember?"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. You've changed since then."

"Mister Lewthor, I'm not sure what you're—"

"What is your name?"

The room fell silent.

"What the fuck is your name?!"

Mac's eyes darted around. Looking for some help from someone. And yet…

"Nathaniel Mackelvaney," Luthor said. "You applied for the job. Personal Assistant to the President-elect. It was supposed to be temporary, transitional, but we liked you enough to ask you to stay. And stay you did. Found your way into every meeting. Because I wanted you here?"

"Uh…"

"We never ran a background check on you. Your position doesn't require any oversight except mine. Didn't you ever wonder why?!"

Mac breathed. Regulated it within himself. He wiped his face and glanced around the room.

In the next moment, Pete and Sam Lane gathered themselves around Luthor. "Sir," Pete said. "Step away from him."

Luthor waved Pete off. He pulled a zippo from his pocket. Lighted it and set it on the desk.

Mac sort of—

Froze. His whole body stiffened as he beheld the lone flame. So small and powerful. So terrifying. It stole his home once, his family, his—

"Fire is a coward," Luthor said. "Hiding in the smoke. Who are you hiding in there, Mac?"

Mac stood. Smoothed the contours of his suit against him.

Luthor leaned back and smiled. The Great White Shark had found its prey.

"if you feel like you have to spy on me, that's fine," Luthor said. "But tell the Justice League I've got nothing to hide."

Then he breathed, clean air fuming through him. The room was still.

And Mac—

Changed. The rumpled fatness of him smoothed away into something taller. Broad masculine strength and skin the color of dark jade. Eyes that burned red and tried their best to stare into Luthor's soul. Only such a thing didn't exist. Only this fool thought so. This…creature. This alien. This Manhunter.

The jade humanoid grew a cape that came up around a narrow skull and twin red crosses over it's chest.

They all froze.

Lane and Pete were covering Luthor. Pete was pulling him to the door. They were all staring at the Martian Manhunter. Albright and Pierce and the rest slunk away to the far side of the room.

Waller stood. Luthor wrestled himself free from Pete and walked right up to the Manhunter.

He was almost shaking. His face locked into a stone sneer. He stared right in the thing's dead Martian eyes. He breathed.

"Do you understand what you've done."

"Do you?"

Luthor smirked. "Director Waller," he said and kept his eyes locked with the Martian's. "Get this thing out of my house."

"No need," the Martian said. "We will be watching, Luthor."

And it was gone. Faded or passed behind the chairs. Into the wall. Through it.

Luthor stared at the wall for time uncounted. He moved only when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Pate.

"What is it?"

Pete looked shocked. Sweating and nervous. "Do you wish to take action sir?"

Luthor thought about it. He moved to the window and stared beyond. The roses were coming in nicely. Something deserved to.

"Sir," Pete said and stammered it out. "He forced entry."

Lane spoke up somewhere behind them. "It would be justified."

Luthor looked at him. At all of them. He waited.

Together, the Cabinet shared a silent agreement on what was to be done. The Justice League had just thrown down the gauntlet.

Without a word between them, they agreed to fight back.

* * *

 _ **Continued…**_


	15. The Great Lie

_GCN's Evening Report with Mike Engel_ , September 11th 2000:

"...And some startling news out of Kahndaq, the Middle Eastern nation at the center of a delicate power struggle. GCN has learned that this week's successful coup of the military government under General Muhunnad was carried out by the metahuman Black Adam, also known as Teth-Adam, and a loyal cadre of hardliners who carried out the coup with his blessing. We've also learned that the Justice Society failed to stem the overthrow and have returned to their Manhattan headquarters. Word from Capitol Hill indicates a growing contingent of Senators calling for an investigation of the Society for potentially treasonous acts while they were in Kahndaq. Meanwhile, closer to home, President Luthor holds an impromptu meeting with the famous Queen Beatriz of Bialya. The stated mission? Ways the two nations can come to bilateral peace agreements in North Africa. More after this..."

* * *

Keystone City.

Except it was no keystone at all. Nowhere remotely important. Certainly not Metropolis or Gotham or even New York where things actually mattered

It bestrode the Missouri River, in a way. One half was Keystone itself, and the other was Central City. A bland name which prideful expansionists created for themselves and the city they wanted. In an older world of frontiers, railroads, and monsters, Central City was the best they could do. The best they wanted. A Central City for the growing nation.

She knew it well. And she knew Keystone. Central's industrious little sister. Blue collar, teetering on the edge of economic depression. And yet. An occasionally-on-strike Kenworth plant on the north side of town, churning out semi-trucks and trailers lo these long years. Good hard-working people who loved their families and their Flashes. A hardy, persistent folk. She knew that too. She almost admired it.

Almost.

But here was the thing about a persistent character:

Eventually it gets old. And persistence is no good on its own—human behavior, she knew, was full of such parasitism. Align yourself to a cause for personal gain while it withers and dies, and you grow in place of it. The world was zero-sum: if you wanted to succeed you needed to step over a corpse.

And step she did.

Amanda Waller was not interested in the business of saving souls. She merely worked around them.

There were other things in Keystone.

People, but they were never very interesting to her.

A Flash or few, and those were slightly more interesting.

And a prison.

Iron Heights sat on a barren promontory overlooking the west side of Keystone, but really staring down at the city, the architecture of it rather frowning at the city. It was hardly a protective prison either. You could say that Stryker's Island, or the Bob Schreck Memorial Penitentiary, or even Arkham itself fulfilled what she had come to publicly state was the most benign function of penal institutes: housing of dangerous offenders away from the general population. To take them away from the people who they by their criminal acts harmed.

Waller felt differently in her private moments. And she knew the infamous warden of Iron Heights felt differently too.

He saw his inmates as experiments. She saw them as opportunities. Perhaps they were both wrong.

And yet.

The Martian's invasion of the White House had only happened a day ago.

If the Justice League were going to throw around heavy weaponry, she was going to combat it. Not quite throw around her own heavy weaponry—and not least because Luthor had given it back to Darkseid, but because her mission required surgery. The Justice League would use a bulldozer to find a china cup. Waller, and Luthor, needed a quieter statement. So here she was.

For now, she stormed into the lobby at Iron Heights and Wolfe stood there waiting and he spotted her and smiled. She knew a fake smile when she saw one. She knew a bullshitter when she saw one. Luthor at least had the courage of his mistaken convictions. Wolfe.

Well.

"Warden," she said. "I'll see him now."

Wolfe made a face. "I was not informed soon enough, I'm sad to say, Director. The inmate has a highly regular schedule we like to keep him on. Medical staff was very insistent."

"No."

Wolfe frowned. "No?"

"We both know you threw him in the Pipeline and hoped to forget about him. I'll be on my way to his cell now, Warden, and if you try to stop me, I'll have you arrested for treason."

She turned and left him standing there. Probably his jaw was on the floor but she told herself she didn't care. She was doing a lot of that lately. The walls were up. She was on guard.

She expected it would be that way for the rest of her life.

And it all felt so mechanical. So easy. When you're in the government, they just let you do it. It wasn't always that way. There was a time before. A time above. No one give you control. She learned it in St Louis. You have to take it. Inch by inch. Block by block.

She was quiet in the elevator. Riding down to the Pipeline, Wolfe's draconian utopia—like Keystone itself, nowhere between anything that mattered—where he kept the worst. Some of them she knew.

Snart.

Rory.

Desmond.

All worthless.

She wanted the cell at the end of the row. At the end of this dark alley that reminded her so much of St Louis it was all she could do to scowl and tighten up every muscle in her body and keep walking. Desmond seemed to call out from behind the force-shield of his cell.

"Amanda," he said and it came as a whimper. "My mind…hurts…"

She stopped. Looked at him. That wolf in the wild stare. Desmond, to his insane credit, noticed. And backed away.

She breathed, a short and angry exhalation, a dragon breath, and went up to the shield of the cell next door and there he was.

McCulloch was the Mirror Master, which was a simplistic way of saying he was another costumed idiot playing cat and mouse with Wally West and, before him, Barry Allen. But McCulloch was a legacy as much as West himself: he inherited the gear, the name, wholesale from the decedent Sam Scudder—who in another life was a gifted member of Task Force X. Scudder had invented the ability to create pathways to alternate dimensions and, like a kid that found dad's gun, he steered the power of his invention which never occurred to him, towards a life of petty crime. Scudder had a storied career, and died in the last multiversal crisis on which Waller had bothered to keep notes.

McCulloch had no similar claim. Cocaine had robbed him of most viability. Oh he was good for Luthor's schemes once upon a time. But that was then, and this was now. And so one summer day in a drug-fuelled rage he'd made a critical error and sent a school and the kids inside it into one of his dimensions which intel called "Wonderland." Never to be seen again. Wally West had McCulloch locked away in here. Another forgotten item on the manifest.

He was on the floor, on the far wall, lazing next to the toilet, one arm kind of propped on it like he was about to pass out into the scummy water. He looked at her through bleary eyes and his breathing was erratic. He seemed to sway in place even though he was laying there on the floor like he'd just—

He gagged, and bent over the toilet.

And vomited.

She rolled her eyes. Looked away, tuned out the and gave him some decency. Prison, she knew, it takes it from you.

He finished retching and wiped his mouth with the back of one trembling hand. Looked at her and swallowed and wiped his lips. Almost all in the same motion. An old drunk's trick.

"Mister McCulloch."

"Aye right?"

"Amanda Waller," she said. "We've met before, although I can't say I expect you to remember."

"Been a while ye."

"How's detox?"

"Ohhh," he said and coughed. "Ma heid's mince."

"I need you. He needs you."

He groaned and looked back at her.

"Ahm paid up."

"One mission," she said. "Just show up and pull the trigger at a particular moment. Sound fair?"

He found strength from somewhere. His face twisted and he said, "Yer incredible."

"If you behave I've also been instructed to grant you a token parole hearing in the Spring and repatriation to the UK. Non-Extradition."

He stared at her.

"And the Squad?"

"When has that ever been your problem?"

He breathed and laid his head on the toilet seat. Stared at the ceiling.

"Ye should kill me. Maybe I know too much, eh."

"Luthor needs you alive," she said. "Whatever else you think you know is irrelevant. Do this mission. And you're gone. Forever."

He breathed.

Rubbed his nose and sniffed and started crying.

"Would ye?"

"Would I what?" She was starting to get pissed.

"Kill me. Lower the shield. Tell them I came at you."

"This is ridiculous," she said and turned to leave. "Enjoy your overdose."

"Wait!'

She stopped and looked back at him.

"This really is poor form, Mister McCulloch."

"I want to be left alone."

"Do this and you can end your life shooting up on the shores of Loch Ness for all I care. Yes or no?"

"Aye," he said and wiped his eyes. "Aye, I'll do it."

* * *

Starling.

Oliver was staring at the phone. A landline in those days, and because he was a sucker for the old ways, it was even a rotary in one of those sad off-beige colors. It fit his mood. On the desk in front of him were the letters from, well, from someone. Mister Anonymous, why not. All these assholes gotta have names. Give this one the notoriety he seems to want. I've fought a thousand morons before, one more isn't gonna hurt me. Mister Anonymous.

Someone who knew him. And knew about Roy.

But.

It wasn't like that.

Roy was…

Roy always had his own way of doing things.

Was it any wonder he went off on his own to fight Luthor? And paid for it with his life.

He remembers.

And when Superman floats down one day and asks if he wants to talk about it, Ollie just shakes his head. He feels old and defeated. Nothing else has hit him—has hurt him this much. All the trials of his life—abandonments, bankruptcy, shipwreck. And earlier. Losing Roy to addiction the first time. Losing Hal.

It's too much. Too far.

Superman is hovering there in the evening breeze and the clouds are low and Ollie can't stop staring at them as they roll in. Superman asks, "did you know?"

Ollie waits. He feels a pang of dread, it's like slow fire creeping up into his throat. He looks at the ground and he says to Superman in a broken whisper: "I tried to tell Roy..."

Then Superman's hand was on Ollie's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Ollie smiles at him and looks up. The clouds seems to part and the sky turns this beautiful sunny yellow in the instant before the clouds come back. He smiles. Through a sigh he says, "Oh god. I spent so many years being angry. Being...me. To have a precious few of them back."

"Come on, don't talk like that," Superman says. "Makes me think you're saying goodbye."

"Maybe I am."

"Oh?"

Ollie breathes and looks at him. "Clark, there's someone behind this. I tried to tell Dinah, but…"

Clark looks at him. In that instant they seem to understand, or finally confirm their suspicions.

"Ollie, I hope you can trust me."

"I hope I can trust myself," he says. "Things are about to get really bad. I can feel it. You can't get involved, Clark. Not yet."

Slowly, painfully, Clark nods.

Ollie brings a smile out. It's fakest of fakes, but he keeps it because it might make him feel better in this moment. And it might make Superman feel better too. Despite this madman in the White House. Despite the international powder keg that's about to kick off. He smiles, thinking of all of it. And he says, "Now get out of here. Go find a cat in a tree. The world still needs Superman."

And now here sat Oliver Queen replaying the last year in his mind. How feverish his mind is turning trying to make sense of all this. It might make more sense if it was some buff guy in spandex, some asshole trying to make a name or some old idiot doing something new.

The world still needs Superman.

And you want to know something, Roy?

It still needs the Green Arrow and Speedy. To do the hard work. The grunt work. The stuff Superman can't be seen doing.

He leaned back in the Eames chair. Breathed. Maybe that was the point of all this. From the very beginning. Be the small guy. The man in the street.

The Green Arrow was never going to save the world. But he could save himself, and the people he loved. From an island, from addiction, and the devil himself. And he could do it from the bottom. From underheel of a society that makes men less than what they are, that beats them down and keeps them in systems of oppression by for-profit masters. He could help them break free. Find their value, and their voice.

He could save something.

The phone rang.

He answered.

"Oliver Queen." A male voice, Ollie could tell. Whoever he was he sounded young and full of shit. Ollie sympathized.

"Yes," Ollie said. "You gonna tell me who you are?"

"Oh, you know, I would but I'm kind of liking this. And not even in like a super villain way, right, it's just nice to get out."

"This is not a game."

"Sure it is," the guy said. "You and your bad guys have a merry chase, but when someone comes around and gets real you wanna cry foul because you're losing? Well I say hard cheese."

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"What did you do with the name I gave you."

"Nothing."

"Really? Melissa Dugan? She's kind of a big deal."

"Figured you were putting one over on me. I wanted to test it by not testing it at all."

"Oh right," the guy said. "That'll show me."

"You tell me," Ollie said. "Who was she?"

"Melissa Dugan," the guy said. "One of LexCorp's earliest employees. Almost before my time. Do you know what he did?"

"Why don't you enlighten me?"

"He killed her."

"He's killed people before, why does this one matter."

"Oh I'm sorry, I thought the Justice League didn't measure lives. He strangled her to death, Oliver. Had his cronies, Mercy and the other one, Jenner, take her back to her place and make it look like no foul play."

"Small potatoes."

"Man, you just hate him. Don't you. You hate him and you wanna go mess him up. That's the worst thing I've ever heard. He's committed actual crimes you know."

"He killed my friend."

"So you're upset in proximity but not overall. Jesus. You know what, nevermind. Here's what I can do. In the next forty-eight hours it can all end, Luthor can be out of the White House and humanity can be free to forge its own path."

"You're full of shit."

"It's the truth."

"I don't buy it."

"Meet me, then. You take the information I have. You give it to Lois Lane or Linda Park and let his deeds play out in the court of public opinion. And it all ends."

"It's a big if. And you imply we'd have to end the Justice League too."

"It's all a machine, man. Feel the burn."

Ollie waited. "You're just some fucking kid, aren't you. Hassling me—"

"Ollie."

He waited. For some reason. "What, kid?"

"If you walk away, he'll never stop."

Silence.

Goddamn it.

"Alright," Ollie said. "Where do I find you."

"A neutral zone, someplace without your buddies. Athens, Ohio. The university runs a small airport outside town. Pretend you're giving a donation. Find me at dark, on the roof of the university library."

What a cliche. Jesus.

Ollie made a face. "What if I say no."

"He's getting paranoid. Everyone knows it. If you don't do this now and try to save what's left, well, between Kahndaq and Bialya, figure he kicks off a super-war in response. Is that something you want on your conscience?"

"I've got a lot on my conscience," Ollie said. "One more thing won't hurt."

"Tomorrow night, then. Maybe your donation can can build the Roy Harper Chemical Dependence Wing, who knows."

"You son of a bitch!"

But the line was dead. The kid was gone.

He breathed.

And tried to stop shaking.

After a moment he picked up the phone and dialed downstairs. Ring. Ring.

"Yes?"

"Felicity," he said. "Get the jet."

* * *

Athens.

A secret, albeit a public one, hidden in the foothills. Not a destination except to those looking for its particular brand of yippies and eager academics. A town built around a university, the oldest of its kind in the region. The first of its kind. Built in an older world of frontiers and monsters beyond. Of men pushing their limits and exploring the world outside. And now, all those centuries later, here it was, essentially grimy, hard and unwelcoming. Come in if you dare. The world is hard, he well knew, and it pushes you when you least expect it.

He stood on the roof of the university library. Seven floors, modern in that Seventies way. He stood there feeling a cold breeze and raindrops pattering on his head. Even through the hat he felt them, the microscopic impact tremors of a thousand droplets. He took a deep breathe and imagined it coursed through him. Felt it light up his nerve endings, his whole body. He smiled. But it was only imaginary. Some quotidian thing, here and gone. A flash finish, electricity reduced by direct current. All the similes.

He felt.

Old.

He turned and looked over the side. Down there sodium-filament lights bathed the streets in warm orange. Warm even in this winter desolation. The wind picking up and wrapping around him. Snow drifting on the cobblestones, two-dimensional ghouls in wandering patterns.

He thought maybe the student body was on break. Maybe they were in class. Or maybe gathered someplace in assembly. In protest.

Oliver felt their pain.

He had been at this for a long time.

It was all about to close in.

He could taste it.

He looked one way and saw the student center, Georgian sprawl, seven floors and built into the hill side, and a Starbucks on one corner, tiny humans in the distance, coming and going. He looked up the street, carved over the hill, and saw the cultural center. His note, his contact, placed it all there.

"Oliver."

Oliver pivoted and saw him there, right by the stairwell, the access door. A kid, just a kid. Skinny, decently tall, black trench coat whipping around him in the breeze. Black hair stuck in a shell of Paul Mitchell. His face was thin and he did not smile. He threw a manila folder, stamped and bound in red labels, at Oliver's foot.

"Christ," Oliver said and bent to get it. "I didn't think you'd come."

"It took a lot of effort," he said.

Oliver eyed the packet. Looked at Jesse. "This is it?"

"This is part of it."

Oliver looked at the packet there on the gathered snow. And at him.

He said, "Who are you?"

"No one."

"No," Ollie said. "Not no one. I want to know."

The kid waited. After a moment he opened his arms in a weak so-what and said, "Jesse."

Oliver made a sound. "Tell me what's in it for you."

Jesse threw one hand up. "Because I know things. And because he shouldn't be able to do what he does anymore."

Oliver breathed. Even in the breeze he saw his breath curl out and dissipate into the night. He kept eyeing the packet.

He had been following the trail for weeks. But there was a creeping sense that it was all too rehearsed. All the messed papers placed just so in abandoned buildings. Finally a dead-drop note from an anonymous tip, saying his suspicions were right and to keep going. Not just keep going but that this source itself had a smoking gun on Luthor. Everything from the beginning. Terrorists on the _Sea Queen_. Illegal cloning experiments. Criminal conspiracies with known felons and multiple murderers, not the least of which was an insane clown with a bodycount higher than any domestic terrorist. Everything.

Oliver tried to resist jumping on it. He tried.

Oliver couldn't fault the kid. Given who Luthor was. Given what Luthor did, or does, to Clark on a daily basis. It was natural. Oliver thought about his own neck of the woods too. Whatever Merlyn, or Deathstroke, does to him, or to Dinah. any of them…it was nothing compared to what Luthor does to Clark.

What he did to me.

Maybe it was the breeze, going right though him, chilling his bones. He felt his breath. His whole body here heaving in the wind. He'd felt this way before. Years ago. The last time he felt the world was ending, with Roy in the throes of addiction and he and Hal going across the country. He always worried he never understood the world. This big…cacophony. All these people, self-involved, not interested in the cause, or helping people. Pigs, he thought. Self-involved. He kept thinking it and felt a pang of heat inside. They don't understand. Of course not. No one understands.

He looked back at the street. Students weaving in and about each other. Infinite lives down there in the maelstrom.

He looked at Jesse.

"I need to know this is the real thing."

"It is legitimate," Jesse said. "We've been talking for weeks, Oliver. You don't trust me?"

"You don't get to call me that."

"Hey," Jesse said. "I'm a hometown boy, okay? This is huge honor and I really mean that. But this is important and if you don't get that, maybe I should take it somewhere else."

Oliver sighed.

"I don't trust you," he said.

"I contacted you," Jesse. "I trusted you. If he finds out you know what happens."

Oliver looked at him.

"Or do you wanna see a dead minority on the evening news? Give me some reading here, Oliver, at what point do the war crimes in that packet shock your delicate liberal sensibilities? At what point is too much not enough? Or do you just like the game? This is cat and mouse bullshit, and you know it."

"Shut up," Oliver said. "I'll handle it."

"I know," Jesse said. "I'm trusting you to."

"Alright."

"There's a private server in the Lindley building, up the street there. Top floor is Art History. That's where he keeps everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything," Jesse said. "I've told you the truth, man, come on. Names, addresses, secret identities, sexual fantasies and little white lies."

Oliver wedged the packet in the gap between his quiver and his back. He put one leg up on a concrete battlement. Captain Morgan, but only just.

"Secret identities," Oliver said.

"Yes," Jesse said. "He's known for a long time."

Oliver breathed.

Jesse said, "I'm sorry."

Oliver flew over the edge. In an instant he had released an arrow into the roof of the next building over and vaulted across. He landed on the Lindley building in a swift flourish, and strolled toward the access stairwell. In a moment he was down the landing and inside. Art History was behind an oak door at the end of the hall.

He turned the knob gently and slid inside.

Jesse lied.

No private server.

Just an empty room, and a plain table with a ripped-out sheet of a legal pad on it.

And a list of names:

 _Conner Kent  
Tim Drake  
Bart Allen  
_ _Cassandra Sandsmark_ _  
Jesse Wright  
Allen O'Neill  
_

Oliver frowned. He breathed, almost hyperventilating, and it formed an idea of the word, "What." A flat what. Not a question. A statement. A fear.

"See anything familiar?"

He whirled in place.

There they stood.

"What. What is this?"

"You wish you knew," Luthor said.

Oliver clenched his teeth. His fists. Every inch of him. And every inch was alive. All the terror and excitement that followed an adrenaline surge.

He took them all in:

It wasn't just Luthor. It was the Mirror Master, too. And it was Jesse.

The kid. Prideful piece of shit. Luthor's informant. Oliver glanced at him and felt himself snarling.

"It was all a lie."

"I implied," Jesse said. "You failed a spot check. Just like they said you would."

Luthor said, "We dangled a carrot in front of you and you grabbed for it expertly. I must admit I'm surprised."

Oliver slowed his breathing. He looked Luthor square in the eye. Slowly, purposefully he removed the domino mask and archer's hat. He cracked his neck and put up his dukes. So this was it.

"Alright you bald bastard," he said and steeled himself. "I've been waiting for this for a long fuckin' time."

Luthor waited.

Behind him McCulloch brought up a mirror gun. It flashed in his hand. At Oliver. In the next moment the flash was gone.

Mirror Master was removing a panel atop the muzzle. A square pane of glass.

"Evan?"

McCulloch smiled. "He's in."

The three of them looked into the pane. A small version of Queen, locked away in McCulloch's dimensional hell. Screaming in anguish. He wasn't trapped in a moebius: not recursion, but endless choices. The problem with democracy. Endless mirror worlds into which he could enter. But none of them this world. Trapped in ethereal crossroads, Oliver Queen would never make the leap home.

McCulloch wondered what would kill him first, the hunger or the madness.

Probably the madness.

Jesse made a face. "Can he see us?"

"No," McCulloch said and sniffed. "He's gone."

Deep inside Wonderland—in the crossroads to everywhere to which only McCulloch seemed to have access—Oliver raged, jumping from pathway to pathway. He breathed and feverishly his brain fired, trying to find some way out of this.

After an hour he stopped. And sat. And pulled the packet from the space behind his quiver.

He started flipping through the pages.

And when he saw they were, every last one of them, blank, he screamed and wept. For the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and his own inexorable end.

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	16. The Light

_The CBS Evening News with Dan Rather_ _,_ _October 16, 2001:_

"Finally tonight, an editorial comment. Every modern president has had his share of detractors—including Lex Luthor. Yet perhaps strangely, there seem to be no protestors outside the White House, at least not anymore. The chants of 'Not My President' from early in the year have gone away. Replaced instead by what any reasonable person might call meaningful legislation passed by a grateful Congress, the ninety-nine to one confirmation of Supreme Court Justice Kagan, a fossil fuel moratorium set to take effect on January the first two thousand and two, and a host of other accomplishments that have silenced this president's early critics. Those criticisms have been replaced by a growing candlelight vigil. People of all ages and creeds have gathered outside the South Lawn and the mood seems generally respectful. There's a gentleman behind me with a sign that reads 'Pray for Kahndaq'. Things have gone quiet, which says perhaps that President Luthor is more than just approved of—he is loved."

* * *

Luthor took the meeting in the Oval Office. For some reason, the Cabinet protested. Lane and Waller and Pete—and Frank Rock, who had seen fit to invite himself to things lately—were sitting in the davenports opposite each other, the low, flat, blandly yellow davenports he was on the verge of replacing. Something green, perhaps, mid-century. Herman Miller. This place reeks of Georgian traditions. He was about to tear them down.

He was leaning on the Resolute Desk, arms folded over his chest, and smiling. Staring at the floor and the shine of his Cole Haans. Lane was talking and Luthor was doing his best to tune it out.

"…Look, all I'm saying is, it's not secure to have the meeting in here."

Waller said, "Frank, what would it take to enhance security?"

Frank thought about it. "With Her Majesty? It's hard to say."

"Short of putting a titanium cage around the office?" Pete said.

Frank looked at him. "Possibly."

Luthor looked at Pete and gave him a nod. Quiet now.

Lane said, "Two armed guards at every entrance. Myself and Frank here ready at the door."

Pete rolled his eyes and slouched into the davenport. "What are you gonna do if she tries something, Sam, draw a pearl-handled revolver on her?"

"You jealous, Mister Vice President?"

"I had hoped," Luthor said. "Pete would take the meeting with me."

That seemed to shut Lane up. He tightened and said only, "Yes, sir."

"Yes sir?" Frank looked between Lane and Luthor. "No. Absolutely not. It's a security threat and if General Lane doesn't see that, I will."

"Frank's right," Waller said. She wasn't looking anyone, instead tapping away at her PowerBook. "The Queen Bee is notorious. She could kill you, Lex. Pete too. Do you want Horne to take over?"

Pete's eyes got wide and he considered it. He said, "Christ. No."

Luthor surveyed the room.

"It's fine then," he said. "Pete goes somewhere nice for safekeeping. It's better if I don't know. Amanda, Sam and the rest of the Cabinet remain in DC. I'll see to the Queen myself. Mercy can stand outside with a musket or something if it will soothe Frank's ruffled feathers."

Waller said, "Yes, sir."

"Good." He stood away from the desk and straightened his suit. "If there's nothing else, I'd like the room alone with Pete."

One by one they stood and bowed and left. The bowing had become a thing in recent days. He couldn't remember who started it but it had become a ritual among this cabal. This little cabinet.

Luthor went to the window. Beyond, and down the angle he could see on the South Lawn, they were finishing up the pathway to the fence. Good.

"Sir, is something wrong?"

"Lex," he said. "You must call me Lex."

Pete did not move. "Sir, I want you to know it's difficult for me to do that. It's a matter of respect."

Luthor looked at him. Those brilliant green eyes narrowed and locked onto Pete. "Of course, I understand." After a pause he said, "What's bothering you."

Pete looked over his shoulder to the door. They were gone. Good. He turned back. "Why are you doing this?"

Luthor looked at him again. This time the face was stone and frowning, the eyebrows angled sharp and the head smooth in the low light. Such an odd expression, Pete thought.

"Doing what?"

"Meeting with her. It's…it makes no sense, Lex. I think we should be focused on security after the Manhunter's little stunt."

"We will," Luthor said. "The Manhunter will be dealt with soon. Tell me what's really bothering you."

Pete waited. After a moment he said, "Lots of little things."

Luthor looked back out the window.

He said, "I know who Superman is. And I know who you are. In relation to him. I chose you for this job, Pete. I wanted to see what you'd do. And you didn't disappoint. You made a nice show on announcement day and you and he haven't spoken since. I doubt you ever will again. Your wife was in love with him. Perhaps she still is. And here you are."

Pete spoke but it was frail and hollow: "I don't..."

Luthor looked at him and his face changed again. "Don't you wonder why Lana doesn't come here? Why she doesn't come to the State Dinners or make herself seen in public with me?"

Pete froze. But not in terror. His lips pursed, half open, and he seemed to leer at Luthor. He said, "What did you do."

Luthor sat. Luxuriant behind the desk. "Years ago. Where else do you think my metahuman research started. She knew everything. And she gave it up so readily."

Then Pete felt himself tighten up. He felt a fist draw back and aim for Luthor's face, his stupid fucking face and his big shiny bald head, that stupid piece of—

Pete breathed. He clenched his teeth together, he felt like he had to. Had to do something. He felt his eyes burning and his breath quickening and knew it was tears. He was losing it.

"We existed at the beginning of the age of superheroes, Pete. I will exist at the end of it. And the Queen Bee and I? We go back, I don't mind telling you. Black Adam…we all know each other. So what you told Superman? Maybe I'm not some supervillain?"

Pete stood by the window. His body kind of frozen there. He was vaguely aware he was breathing but it was a short, paralyzed effort. He breathed, and thought about it. About things. And in a moment the paralysis faded. He turned to track Luthor and his eyes narrowed. He drew a weak gasp of air over dry lips and felt its sour taste in the back of his throat.

"That's not true. Superman—"

"They'll come for me," Luthor said. "You know that, too. Superman and all his friends. One day they'll float down, rip the roof off and decide I'm the worst thing for the country. Then it'll be your turn. And what a turn. The turn you've been waiting, and preparing for, for years. Ever since that High School trip."

Pete was pacing now. He was breathing greedy. The gears were turning at a feverish pace. After a minute he stopped. Looked at Luthor.

"So yes it's all true," Luthor said. "And it makes such a riveting story, doesn't it. President Evil. A grand conspiracy to change the country—the world. Make things the way I want them. Murder, chaos, sex. Conspiracy with a foreign power, working with my old super-villain friends in a swamp outside Gotham, even trading away Doomsday for political considerations, although you knew about that didn't you."

Pete breathed. He looked away. A million miles away. There were things he knew and things he didn't. And if any of this got out...

"But of course, no one believes it. And no one ever will. Because that's how good I am. At making things disappear. Do you understand."

Pete stood there. He swallowed and breathed. His vision blurred—the tears were coming. But he was always good at pushing them back down. Midwestern trick: take your emotions and push them right back down to hell where they belong.

He looked at Luthor.

Lex.

"So what do we do."

"We're in the endgame," Luthor said. "In one year, we've legalized same-sex marriage, stacked the court the way you wanted, balanced the budget, we're this close to electric cars and that fossil fuel moratorium I promised. We even wiped out a couple of miserable extremists in their caves. I will meet with the Queen Bee, we will have peace in the Middle East, and all our other accomplishments will pale in comparison. We'll do these things that Superman can't. A world that doesn't need him. So that when he comes, Pete, he'll have nothing to do with all his power. Do you hear me. Nothing."

Pete nodded. He wiped his lips and said okay.

Luthor looked out the window and scowled. "This is my house. I'm not leaving."

* * *

Themyscira.

Was her home.

But she was here in Italy.

Avernus was the gateway to the other side and it was there that she felt the strongest pull. The day and age was dark and in need of explanation.

She remembers.

When she is young and the world is young as well. She is young, yes, but she is growing. In physical strength, in intellectual strength. And the strength in her heart grows fastest. She believes this with all her heart. Not just that she will grow up and inherit the mantle of the Wonder Woman. Not that she will be their champion in some token way. But that she must do all she can to remain worthy of the title. Accomplishments are no good on their own. They must be continuously justified, the self must continuously improve. She believes this fully. That she must do as much as she can for her sisters, for the gods, and the world itself. It is, as Hippolyta has told her many times, a sacred duty. And then other things happen. She grows, and the world grows. Things change. Things fall apart. Through trial and tribulation, through the decimation of her home by evil Gods, through resettling herself in a new city and the true friends there, through meeting a young woman named Cassie, full of heart and destined for more—

Through all of that. She has her fears and doubts. As always. Alongside the love in her heart, they define who she is. This princess. This Wonder Woman.

And so here now, in a widened gap between the mountain and the earth, Diana descended. Not as the Wonder Woman, that storied champion of the Amazons. No.

She came to Italy as Aeneas before her, in raiments, as a beggar, supplicant and desperate. Simple vermilion robes wrapped tight around her. Her hair hanging free and without style. She wore weathered caligae, boots of the type her legionary cousins wore in an older world. How appropriate, she thought. In an age of elephantine greed and superior corruption, appropriate the articles of vain men. Little boots they would trample you under. So yes, she travelled as a questioning beggar. But not a defenseless one.

The path twisted down into the fumarole, and smoke billowed forth, occluding her vision. She put one hand out to one side and felt along the rock wall. Feeling the atoms, the very turn of the universe, sing beneath her fingers. You are so old, she thought, and full of history. You have seen much. What stories there are in you.

In stones we see our past. Where we have been—and where we shall be.

The earth crumbled and cracked beneath her caligae. At a descending set of switchbacks she stopped. Breathed deep. The smoke became steam—volcanic exhaust and she breathed deep the sulfur's toxic sting. It was a moment of strength, a show of willpower.

She continued.

Through the steam, the smoke, the mephitic ether soaking into her.

She breathed deep. And kept going.

Eventually the steam, the shapeless passageway, thinned and became a darkened chamber. A single candle sat on the ground ahead of her.

And a woman on a stone bench beside it. She was dressed plainly, and sat hunched over, as if praying to the basalt wall before her. She turned to one side as if gazing at the lonely flame.

"Sibyl."

The Sibyl looked upon her. A frown, perhaps, or a scowl. Sadness that penetrated Diana's soul.

"I...thought it best," Diana said and bowed. "In respect for your many years and sacrifices."

"You are no priestess?"

"Did my cousins not show you proper fealty all those years ago, my lady? Is it not in my nature to memorialize their honor?"

"You walk," the Sibyl and looked up at the wall. "In their shadow. Will you also weep empty tears over a lost love, like pius Aeneas?"

"I only seek knowledge."

"You seek totems," the Sibyl said. "Truth is not a trinket to hold in your hand. It lives bodiless in your mind and your heart. Truth is all around us and within us."

"I ask humbly, my lady. My world is beset by problems."

The Sibyl looked away.

"Will you still sit in passivity while the world is unmade? Or will I have to fight you as well."

"Save your anger for the ones you believe deserve it. The men who would unmake your world."

"Alexander Luthor," Diana said.

The Sibyl breathed, warm and seductive. "And more."

Diana touched her face, the warmth of her. The grist of volcanic sulphur, imperceptible to the insensitive hand, on her alabaster skin. She closed her eyes.

"You know the others," the Sibyl said. "Men of fire. Men of magic."

"The Demon's Head."

"Yes," Sibyl said. "The Time Abyss. And..."

Diana went deeper. Further back in the Sibyl's ancient mind.

Men of magic.

No. Man.

Just one.

A champion once, but now no longer.

Cast out.

"Adam," Diana said. A gasp, a whisper on her tongue.

The Sibyl whispered. "Why have you come to me?"

"The gods cannot speak to me," Diana said. "I need wisdom only one as ancient as you can provide."

"You flatter yourself with sadness," the Sibyl muttered. "Your doubt is self-created and unnecessary. Your world and your heart are caught in the gulf between things, the turn of choice, and the passing of one world in fiery holocaust. This is the truth Hippolyta would never tell you, the cruelest lesson of Iliupersis: all worlds end. In the final analysis even Gods must die."

Diana breathed.

She looked down at herself, at her hands through tear-filled eyes. She looked back up, and the Sibyl was looking at her.

The Sibyl reached out and touched her face. "You have the love of humanity in your heart. But it is a fragile thing. You believe they are worth fighting for or else they will be lost forever. We have seen that, too, have we not."

Diana wiped the tears from her eyes. She whispered, "Yes."

"Fight, then, defend what is dearest to you even as this age passes into memory. If it is to be an end, make it the noblest ending in history."

* * *

So this is the end of the Queen Bee.

The limousine picks her up at Reagan National. Jenner is leaning against a baggage carousel in the claim area and looking at the floor, at his shoes, at his watch, bored, bored, bored and waiting on her. He pulls the aviators down on his nose and eyes her. Just like the rest. Almost like Lois Lane. That swagger. That entitlement.

He's starting to get sick of this.

He crunches the burning end of an American Spirit between thumb and forefinger and walks up to her. He says, "Your Majesty," and she stops. Sticks her head up. Looks down her nose at him. Christ almighty she actually looks down her nose at him. He says, "Your car is this way."

She says nothing. But she follows him. At the exit a wing of Secret Servicemen fall in line behind them. The car is a Lincoln stretch, a holdover Luthor tells the Secret Service he prefers over the armored Chevy monstrosities. She opens the door herself and slides in. Jenner drives and stares at the mirror every so often.

She is quiet and contemplative, staring out the window and absorbing her surroundings as they travel to the White House, and Jenner studies her in turn. She wears a full-length black dress with a black jacket, cinched at the hip. A broad black hat, the brim tipped in front of her eyes at a jaunty angle. She wants so badly to look dangerous and closed off—a mystery to be unravelled, a kiln waiting to be fired. A strong, silent heart waiting to break a weaker one. He's seen it before. Lois at least seemed to wear it well. On the infamous Queen Bee of Bialya it was a cheap suit.

They arrive. The meeting is published, and discussed in favorable media outlets—CNN, Paul Gustavson's column—but it is not meant to be a major event. The goal is not flash or show. The goal, ostensibly, is constructive solutions to the problems that plague their world. Or so the press releases say.

The truth is much worse.

The truth.

As she steps out of the limo and holds that magnificent hat to her head as the breeze kicks up. As she struts between the assemblage of men—weak as water, and so far beneath her that they do not even deserve the full devastating effects of her mercy. As she passes the Marine holding the door to the West Wing. He says only, "Ma'am," and she smiles at him. She slows but only for a moment, locking eyes with him. He is tall and proud, handsome and strong, and she thinks perhaps she will use her talents on him. Convince him to find a weapon and cause a scene. Kill them, she thinks but does not say. Kill them all. And first among equals should be Luthor.

She keeps walking.

It all seems too perfunctory. The staff welcomes her. She says hello and how are you, and their Secretary of Defense, a balding and unassuming nonfactor named Eiling welcomes her on behalf of his nation. His look belies nothing of their shared history.

"This is where I leave you, Your Majesty. I hope you have a productive meeting."

She bows to him. Ever so slightly. When she stands back up they lock eyes and in that moment their entire history comes and goes. A monster, a brute, Eiling was. In another life. And the Queen Bee herself. And a polymath assassin named Prometheus. And Luthor. Always Luthor.

She smiles a wicked smile. She remembers how it felt.

Not so long ago.

Oh how they burned like a sun. Like a whole screaming universe.

She loved it.

She still does.

She turns and enters the office. This Oval Office.

These Americans and their totems. She holds back a sneer.

The door shuts behind her.

The office is dark. The only light is the afternoon gloom—late November, barest of blue daylight seeping in through pulled curtains. She looks at the desk.

He is there, facing away, towards the windows and the gloom. She comes before the bare desk.

The chair turns. He looks at her.

And she looks right back.

"The League of Assassins is in my country. Emboldened by Kahndaq. I want to know what you're going to do about it."

He waits. In the impenetrable moment that follows, she breathes. And it's almost a sigh, a weary exhalation. She sits on the arm of the Davenport, arms folded just so on her lap. And waits for his response.

"We were supposed to discuss foreign policy. Peace in the Middle East. President Carter's dream, was it not?"

"His most foolish endeavor."

"He was driven," Luthor says.

"He was weak," she says. "I expect you to do better. Mister President."

"Perhaps. Not to put too fine a point on it," he says. "I think Adam and the others know a strong hand when they see one."

"Yours?"

"Yes."

She chuckles. Rolls her eyes.

"Don't you remember?" He leans forward. Stares right at her.

"I remember our misadventures," she says. "If you could call them that."

"My methods have changed somewhat."

"Only just," she says. "Still a prideful boy pretending he's anything other than Metropolitan street trash."

He leans back in the chair and smiles. He pulls a Lucky Strike and a lighter from one pocket and lights it. The smoke billows from his mouth and his nose and he says, "I enjoy you, Beatriz."

"You still want to kill them. To kill him."

He tamps the cigarette onto the bare desk before him. He says, "Yes."

She looks up at him and they share a moment. She gets this concerned look on her face. Dedication, perhaps. The muscles of her jaw clench and her eyes narrow, the eyebrows angle into sharp checkmarks on her forehead. Even under the hat he sees the intentionality of her.

"I can help you," she says.

He ashes the cigarette once more. Looks at it and her. He says, "No."

She straightens up. Still on the Davenport's arm. "I'm sorry."

"You come into my house," he says. "Ask for my help. Insult me. And then expect I'll help you with your pest problem."

"Ra's is beyond pestilence," she says. "He wants overthrow. He has some retrograde view of the world. The way things should be."

"You sound surprised, Beatriz. He's always been like that."

"He threatens me! You insult me! What am I to do if not defend myself."

Luthor makes a face. "Talk to him. Much as we're doing now. See what happens. Eventually everyone sees the light."

She looks at him. Her mouth thins into a sneer.

He drums his fingers on the desk, a quick beat of four, and shifts, leaning forward and staring right at her. The cigarette in his hand has burned down to a dead stub between his fingers. He says, "Let me tell you something, you miserable woman. I've known Ra's al Ghul since I was young. There is a small group of us that assist in the orderly progression of the world. He and I have had this understanding for years. Black Adam and I have had this understanding since my metahuman research division discovered him in eighty-eight. And now you say Ra's is in your country, using it as a proving ground for his poor, benighted vision of balance. I don't care. My government doesn't care. And I won't help you. I'll let him burn Bialya to the ground just to see it go. You have no power, and nothing to threaten me with. But you made a good showing. And you have my respect for that."

She stands. "You asked me here just to deny me entrance to your little cabal."

"I asked you here as an exercise in humiliation," he says. He flips his PowerBook open. Glances at it and back up at her. Flips it around to the GCN homepage. And the headline thereon—

"Because it looks like your Republican Guard is about to lose to a bunch of dissidents at the border."

She looks him and her eyes are wide. Her skin has flushed. She freezes there before the Most Powerful Man in the World.

"Run home, little worker bee. And don't ever contact me again."

She flees. The door opens and she is gone.

And Luthor remains. Watching the door. Mercy appears there and, not a word between them, she pulls it shut and stays out. Luthor pulls his mobile phone from his pocket.

Dials.

Ring.

Ring.

"Talk."

He doesn't know the voice. He says: "Give me Ra's or I'll drop an atomic bomb on you. Now."

Silence.

Ahead of Luthor, above the fireplace, is the Gilbert Stuart portrait of Washington. He stares at it. And does it stare back. Of course the implication is there—the splendid source of all this staring down at Luthor. In judgment. Luthor remembers his own words to Superman. A lifetime ago:

See anything familiar?

I see an old man's sick joke.

And you General Washington?

Luthor's eyes narrow. They stay on Washington. The phone line hisses.

"Alexander."

"It's been a long time since someone called me that."

"It is your truest self."

"I beg to differ. Her Majesty has just left my office.

"She will be well taken care of."

"Good."

"There is more you must know," the Demon said. "I do not make light of this work, Alexander. Bialya is my proving ground. Tomorrow, as ever, the world remains."

Luthor smiles. "I'm aware, as you know most people are, of what you did with the Ebola virus in Gotham. I'm aware of Talia, and your Santa Priscan enforcer, and the test-tube baby you've got hidden away in the desert. And if you think dealing with me is like dealing with Batman, you're sorely mistaken. I don't measure lives, Ra's. I take them."

"Then we understand each other. Farewell, Alexander."

The line goes dead. Luthor puts his phone back in his pocket. Leans back in the chair and breathes out, one long, slow draw. He stares at Washington there on the wall.

And Washington stares right back.

An hour later, the Queen Bee is in the air on the Wayne Enterprises Air Glide 3—a private jet with just enough legal distinctions from the LexCorp Gulf Stream 5 to avoid suspicion.

Five minutes after clearing American airspace, the plane explodes.

The fire rips through the cabin and in her last moments the Queen Bee swears. And screams.

And remembers their adventures. If you could call them that.

Oh the way they burned. Like a whole screaming universe.

She will always love it.

And she will always miss it.

* * *

 _ **Continued…**_


	17. This Appalling Place

_GCN's Evening Report_ with Mike Engel, November 1, 2001:

"I'm very concerned that we haven't seen Superman in some time. I mean, time was, Glenn, it was—you could see that red streak going up Fifth Avenue or out towards the suburbs, wherever someone needed help. I think I haven't seen it for weeks, maybe months. I don't know where he is, or where his Justice League friends are, but things are happening that could use his attention, I mean, just this morning the station received a bomb threat. Now that's been widely reported by now and I'm not going to go into specifics, but it's symptomatic of something larger and more dangerous happening. And it's happening because we have a leadership vacuum in this city. President Luthor is doing his job in DC, but Metropolis needs Superman. I want to go to Vicki Vale now, down in the plaza. Vicki, you've been getting reactions, tell us, what's going on out there?"

* * *

In Washington DC, at the White House, the long night continues.

Lex Luthor is alone in the Oval Office. Seated at the Resolute Desk, but the chair is turned around so he can look out the window.

He thinks of Suicide Slum.

And of Lois.

And Superman.

He takes his cellular phone from his pocket. He's engineered it long before now in such a way that one call reaches many specific recipients. He dials that one number, and one phrase cries out.

"It's time."

Then he disconnects. Slides it back in his jacket pocket.

He picks a Lucky Strike and a lighter from the other pocket and lights it.

Through the smoke, through the haze of things to come, he waits.

* * *

In Starling, at the Starling High School, home of the Falcons—go figure—Jesse Wright walks the halls alone. He has a free track after lunch, and he uses it to grab his gym bag from the Tahoe. He's fifteen and a half and he's just started driving—he's young, scrappy and hungry, and as he walks through the full parking lot and then the empty halls, there's a strut to him. A knowingness. Because he knows what they don't. He gets his gym bag and takes the side entrance back into the school. The single heavy grey door there by the weight room. He heaves it open, pulls it back shut and walks into the weight room. Kyle is in there and he just walks up to him, kisses him, and tells him to come over later. Kyle says yeah of course and Jesse says good and kisses him again. Other things happen and twenty minutes later Jesse leaves Kyle, dazed and confused on the mats, and heads back to class. The gym bag sits by the door. Kyle gets dressed and leaves, and doesn't notice it ticking away.

In Kahndaq, at the Provisional Guard Air Base north of Shiruta, a wing of MiG-29s launch. They're bound for Bialya. The pilots, known only to Ra's al Ghul and Black Adam standing there at his side, are suicide bombers from the League of Assassins. True believers. Once they drop their destructive payloads on the capital they will turn course and kamikaze the burning remnants of the country. The League of Assassins, you see—and Black Adam, and the remnants of his cortege in Shiruta—and Lex Luthor sitting in Washington, DC—and even Orm Marius, the master of oceans, watching from his exile in long-fabled Xebel—they're about to set the world on fire. And those true believers, flying to their deaths? They'll just have to imagine the fire.

In Keystone at Iron Heights, Evan McCulloch is supplied his mirror gun by a bought security guard. He uses it to phase into Albert Desmond's cell next door and rip the poor man's tongue out the hard way. McCulloch was a killer after all, in another life, and he longs to revisit that older self as often as he can. The drugs help. Wonderland helps. He strings Desmond up by his bedsheets. He breaks the force shields on every cell in the block: Rory, Snart, even the new ones like Doctor Amar and the monstrosity called Girder. At the guard post before the front gates, over the twisted corpse of Warden Wolfe, the Rogues flee the prison. Before them, Keystone, Central, and all the gains in between. But McCulloch? He tells Snart, "I gotta future. I'm going back in." And he does. The Rogues descend on the twin cities without him.

In Gotham, Bob Gray was hunched over a desk in the manager's office in the decaying Sionis Steel Mill. He wore ratty fading jeans, mud caked shitkickers and a flannel shirt that hung too loose on his tall, hunched bones. He was texting on his mobile, in those days one of the small Motorolas you could only play Snake on. Maybe one day they'd make a way he could send photos of victims to…victims, or something. As it was, he was sitting there at the cracked desk giggling over the chain of phone calls from—if he remembered right, the Gothcorp CEO? It was all running together. Then the phone beeps that annoying digital beep. He stares at it for a second and the smile fades. He pushes the thing, the button. He says, "Yello, anybody home? Ha ha!" And the very serious man on the other side says it's time and old Bob Gray there, he only says, "oh okay, but you know I do so hate feeling caged in this relationship, Lexie, I'm a free spirit! I'm a man! I need to feel loved, I—". Click. Bob looks at the phone again and sneers and says, "oh okay." He dials on it again. Ring. Ring. Ring. He makes a face and looks up. Through the dirty, cracked windows. And in the distance the bombs start going off. In another minute he hears sirens. And he starts laughing. The laugh carries through the Mill, and becomes something terrifying and familiar.

In Colorado, at Cheyenne Mountain and nestled deep within the control room there, Amanda Waller and Wade Eiling do things much more simply: they merely press twin buttons at the same time. Like nuclear weapon controls, there are built-in contingencies so that no one person has access to fire. So there have to be two. Unlike nuclear controls of the day, which are only designed to set off a predetermined and incomplete number of warheads, the switches that Waller and Eiling throw are linked to every supermax prison in the continental United States. Stryker's Island in Metropolis. The Robert Schreck Memorial Penitentiary. Blackgate Penitentiary in South Gotham. Belle Reve. And…Arkham. And so Eiling and Waller flip the switches. And all across the country, prisons open. Riots follow in moments.

In Shiruta, Black Adam and his surviving cadre—Albert Rothstein, the Atom Smasher, and Northwind the Feitheran—go in front of state television. Adam speaks with a stone expression, arms folded over his chest. "The world outside is doomed. Your leaders have failed you. Only in Kahndaq can those fleeing oppression be guaranteed a safe and secure future. I say to all meta-humans and non-powered individuals alike who have been lied to by their governments, hunted by their governments, forced into servitude, made to feel less than what they are, welcome. To those seeking asylum, to those escaping the oppression of their masters, superhuman or not, we say welcome. You have twelve hours to enter Kahndaq before we close our borders to the burning world."

In Metropolis, a machine in the form of a man named John Corben spray paints a crude Superman logo on the doors of the _Daily Planet_ building. He plucks a piece of his own Kryptonite heart out and lodges it in the center of the logo, in a shallow recess in the limestone. Underneath the logo he sprays paints: ALIEN NAZI SUPERMAN GO HOME. He goes to the WGBS building, to _NewsTime_ , to the _Ledger_ and the _Post_ , and tags then with similar notes. He blows up Paul Gustavson's car and burns a Superman shield into his front lawn. Across Metropolis, the Newsboys, generational descendants of Luthor's boyhood gang, tag city blocks with similar graffiti. They bust up shop windows. Throw burning bottles in open storefronts and before Turpin and his SCU goons can descend they disappear. But the riots. The looting. The fire rises.

Up in space, in an alien vessel shaped like a skull although colored in dark metalloids and iridescent greens, the vast and indifferent artificial intelligence at the center, calling itself Brainiac since before time began, is working. It manipulates its way into earthbound computer systems, consumer websites and internet forums, and pushes a host of duplicate messages. All have the same general idea: they are pro-Luthor, anti-Superman, anti-superhuman, and call for violent revolt against "Supers" trying to take control of the government. The artificial intelligence pushes the data to the internet all at once.

Up the street, an old hunched man lurches into the Sullivan Street Apartments. Up near the top of the building, nineteenth floor, and the thirty-eighth suite on the floor. It's Clark Kent and Lois Lane's apartment. And there at the end of the hall, the Toyman, Winslow Schott, so old and so decrepit now, he lurches out of the elevator with a Sally Speaker doll, one of the old pull-string ones, under one arm. He moves slow. His hair is gone, a lifetime of stress and bad habits have kissed it goodbye. His legs ache and sting with every movement—diabetes is about to take one foot or both. His eyesight is going, his glasses little better than thick Coke bottles. His heart isn't great. Medicaid says he needs a quintuple bypass. He breathes heavily and leans on the wall with his one free hand. Finally, an eternity later, he gets to the door. He looks at the Sally Speaker and frowns. He kneels, his joints burning, his heart pounding, and looks at Sally. Keeps looking at her. Poor Sally, the Toyman thinks. You were supposed to bring happiness. He thinks of poor dead Cat Grant and her poor dead son, little Adam. Lord, he thinks, I never meant to hurt him. He pulls the string and waits. In his last minutes he lets himself smile. And Sally speaks: "Hello Winslow! How are you today! Hello Winslow! How are you today! Hello Winslow, how are you today! Hello Winslow! How—". The explosion takes out the entire floor.

In Midway City, a group of high-schoolers around their lunch table reads a post on a pro-Luthor website calling for violence against superhumans. One of them goes out to his truck and grabs his gun. As he's walking back inside he loads it with some shells from his pocket. He wants to make a statement. As he walks back into the cafeteria he runs through the shotgun's technical specifications before he opens fire.

* * *

On the moon, the Martian Manhunter, J'onn J'onzz, is on monitor duty at the Justice League Watchtower. In many ways it is his preferred function on this League. Watching. Waiting. Dispatching their resources towards optimized assistance. Because—

This world is worth it.

All worlds are worth defending.

He told Despero, the mad tyrant, as much once. All worlds have value. The moment you start deciding who is and who is not of value, you lose.

Yes, you lose. Any argument you wish to make. Any moral center. Any morality at all—

When you measure lives.

He told Luthor as much once, too.

"I am from the fourth planet in this solar system. You are not my President. And you are utterly without significance to me."

He frowns. He looks ahead. The earth is vast and quiet from beyond the massive exterior wall that also serves as a force shield view screen. A window on the world. The Monitor Womb is behind him, in a vast sealed tube that stretches the vertical length of the tower. But he is here at what could be best described as a control station. Monitors and computing systems feed live data from major crisis points around the globe, the moon, the nearer stellar neighborhood as well as further afield places like Rann and Thanagar, not to mention the feeds from New Genesis and Apokolips which have been unusually quiet lately.

Like they're waiting for something.

He breathes.

The earth is so peaceful and so troubled. So beset by problems. Population controls, greed, and the baseline venality of mankind. He thinks of Mars but it has been so long since those dark days. So long since…

Since the end.

He looks at the Earth and wonders.

Are you next, my friends? Are we doomed to repeat our mistakes. What of eternal recursion and the cyclical nature of man's actions. He feels like he doesn't have the answers. And he feels this way so assiduously that he wonders if he ever had the answers. to begin with.

He came to this planet almost as a grand experiment. A grand accident. After the end on Mars, and the final break with Malefic. He came to Earth by happenstance and found himself remaining. Seeking solace. It was not meant to be permanent. But there was…a need here.

And so he stays. He helps where he can. He joined this Justice League to continue his mission of helping.

But Luthor.

A human, surely the greatest of his kind. And the greatest danger to his people. Ironic, given his position that Superman was the more dangerous of the two.

Luthor has cast a pall on all of them. And so what J'onn told him weeks ago was true, if a hopeful deflection. He was utterly without any significance. But Luthor vexes. The Justice League serves mankind, rights that which is wrong, and, more clinically, J'onn thinks, assists in the orderly progression of the world's population. Crime and despair are not normal things, and cannot survive but for the interventions of evil men who wish to perpetuate oppression. Hence, the grand experiment. The grand accident.

He felt his mind connected to this place. Through the wasteland of Mars, the destruction which his brother brought, this planet, this pale blue dot called out. It called out in one word, and the Last Martian answered the only way he could.

Help.

And he did.

He tried. There were mistakes.

Chief among them, he knew, was masquerading as Mackelvaney. As an aide to Luthor. For educational purposes. Not to collect information on running him from office—for all his suppositions at a previous League meeting, he did not believe in upsetting a human government merely because of disagreement. However…if Luthor were to violate his oath which the ancient rites of human civilization had put on him and which he swore to uphold…if he willingly broke with the public good and turned instead to his old ways…then that, J'onn thought…

That would be unforgivable.

And so he concocted Mackelvaney out of an adventure he'd had years before in Metropolis. In short order, Mackelvaney found his way into Luthor's retinue.

Luthor must have known. Surely.

J'onn saw his mind. In the moment before he reverted to his true form there in the Situation Room. Luthor's mind.

Oh the way it burned.

The kind of fire that, once it starts, is very hard to put out. The tender boughs of innocence burn first. And the wind rises and then. All goodness is in jeopardy.

And now. This planet, his adopted home, is in jeopardy.

Watching this world he has come to love, watching it explode—

He thinks of the end on Mars. But why.

He's just a man. This Luthor.

But he has to remind himself of his own words.

Men—

Have committed the worst atrocities. And we know it.

They must be fought.

This was the logic of the Martian Manhunter.

He breathes. Again. He looks down at the computer.

The screens light up.

And the world.

The world explodes—

In Keystone there is a prison break. Riots have taken over the suburbs. An angry mob is moving across the bridge to Central. Torches and pitchforks, weapons and screams and fear. Primal fear.

Rioting in Metropolis. His scanners are chattering over each other. It started in Suicide Slum, and is moving down Fifth Avenue to the LexTower. Someone has vandalized the _Daily Planet_ building. Similar tags being discovered all over town. An explosion at a midtown high-rise. Stryker's has been opened.

A series of explosions in Gotham's industrial sector. Blackgate and Arkham have been opened—and he thinks instantly of the evening of the No Man's Land. The evening that city ate itself. The evening they all stood there and watched Bruce, tears in his eyes, tell them to stay away. J'onn frowns. It's very nearly all he can muster right now.

In Starling City, a High School has just exploded. Looting downtown. J'onn taps up the Black Canary on comms.

"Dinah, this is—"

"I know," she says and it's a tinny, garbled mess. "I'm handling what I can. Don't contact me again."

Click.

He stands there.

Watching.

There are twelve displays. Each showing something different. And something the same. Cities on fire. People marching.

Loneliness.

Alienation.

Fear.

Despair.

Oh no—

He taps up Superman on comms—

"Superman, this is the Martian Manhunter. I fear something terrible has happened."

* * *

And far north, in the shrinking Artic nothingness there lay only a Fortress of Solitude. Within, in turn, were two dedicated public servants. One human. One alien. But getting there, getting there.

He had great powers as the Man of Steel. Greater still as Clark Kent.

She had great powers as Lois Lane.

Together, they fought mad tyrants, corrupt officials, lifted up the powerless, fought evil—

They saved the world.

And now, here in this place, this Fortress of Solitude, they're going to do it again. They're fearless, these two. They've been through so much. Seen so much. And for a while it seemed like they should keep quiet. Plenty of awful things happening in the world. Why add to it. Why give credence to subversive thoughts or ideas, why give them oxygen if they're so destructive.

She has spent a lot of years thinking about that. She supposed it was why she got into journalism. To answer a question.

Is there—

Is there such a thing as evil in the world.

She wasn't sure she had an answer.

She started reporting to find out if it was true. Good and evil are just words, and words have meaning. Power. Words can change the world. And yet.

Good isn't practical. It requires a noble spirit. Something she did not exactly grow up with. And then evil, if you wanted to call it that—such a theatrical term. By any analysis evil should win. Good requires loyalty, love. Caring. So why does good prevail? What keeps the balance in this appalling place. Is there logic, is it something liminal, or is there some force controlling it all. Maybe not even controlling—something more anodyne. Not controlling. Directing. Coldly. Clinically.

Is it possible someone actually cares?

She spent years wondering that.

And then she met him.

She remembers. Oh she put on such a tough face. But in her heart. You know. Sometimes you discover something, you learn something new, and it feels right. In your heart of hearts.

Clark Kent.

Eventually she came to know him as Superman.

And he proceeded to confirm some suspicions she had about the human race. About herself. About judging books by their covers. All the bromides. She challenged him. More than Luthor ever had, certainly. And in a more constructive way.

Here was someone who wasn't interested in winning. Or beating somebody. Someone…much like Lois herself.

She wanted to do what was right. Dad always got that part right. She grew up wanting to be right. Not just right but terribly right. Unreasonably right, and unreasonably good. Be better than you have to be, he used to say. Per aspera ad astra, though he only said that part once after a trip to Canaveral. But it stuck with her. A rough road leads to the stars. Yes it's hard work to find the truth, and yes it's going to hurt a lot of the time, and yes people will hate you, but the reward, Lo—the reward is self-respect.

She agreed. And she believed it. Not even just believed, but took the message and held it close in her heart as the years passed.

There's good and there's evil. She thought. And there's truth and there are lies. And I want to find them out. I want to report on the space between.

And by god she did. She has. She still does.

And so one day, back at home, in comes Clark. He comes home and he has this haunted look. She looks up from her PowerBook and she frowns. She hasn't seen this look before. She's seen something like it before, especially in the last two years. With Luthor. But now, here, he looked different. Worse. Haunted.

She knows he went to see Oliver.

She can tell how it went from here. Still—

"How was it."

He just looks at her. And he moves away. Goes into the kitchen. Coffee time.

She's behind him, but she hovers back, leaning on the doorjamb between the living room and the kitchen.

"Clark."

"It's fine."

"Use the french press."

"Uh. Nah."

She's at his side then. He's watching the kettle heat up. A tin cup on the glass top off to one side, a small mound of grounds there in the bottom. She looks at it and at him.

"Smallville," she says and it comes so patiently, so caring. "Still making coffee down on the farm?"

"I like ground coffee," he says. "Pa used to make it this way. Five big spoonfuls."

"I've had your dad's coffee. I think it made me see through time."

That got a laugh. She took the opening to slide one arm around his side and feel his warmth and get close. She rested her head on his shoulder. They seemed to breathe in unison. How long ago was Perry's little honorarium for the staff. How long ago were they all happy and celebrating in the bullpen? Before the dark times. Before Lex.

She purses her lips and thinks about it. He turns in place and their embrace morphs into a hug. And it's then that she feels his heartbeat. So warm. So calming. All these years and it still surprises her. Still amazes her.

She's reported the news all her life. And she loves it. She does.

She loves him too.

"Lois."

"Clark."

"Do we still have that filing cabinet."

She can tell by his voice that it's not a question. Everyone says that—'it wasn't a question' but this time it really wasn't. It was the illusion of a question. A certainty she'd come to see in him—something he didn't quite show very often. Because when you're strong and secure you generally don't need to tell people. He didn't need to broadcast some constructed sense of self, some identity politic, easily collapsible like a house of cards.

So no. He wasn't asking. He was making sure.

The filing cabinet.

The one in the den. Padlocked and secured with technologies from Clark's friends on the League. The filing cabinet that had every piece both of them had ever written, published and unpublished, about Mister Lex Luthor. All his dealings. Every exhaustive piece of investigative reporting Lois Lane had worked on since that final break with him there on the top floor of the Planet building. So long ago. Every piece Clark had ever written, even the plot sketches for Under a Yellow Sun that linked Luthor's then-abuse of city services to line his own pockets. And more disturbing things besides that she didn't like to think about unless she had to open the folders and read them. Things she had compartmentalized. About the way he treated women. About the way he treated his parents, and the old gangsters in the Slum. Things she locked up in a certain part of her brain. Things Luthor knew they both had. Things he made sure to sic the lawyers on. So they'd never see the light of day. So Lois Lane could do nothing against him.

The filing cabinet had it all.

She looked up at him.

"Yes," she said. "I think we do." She couldn't help it: a smile came across her face.

He nodded. "I want to go North. I want to publish it all."

She waited.

"Are you," she said. "Are you sure?"

He nodded again. "It's time to do what Superman can't. What Clark Kent can. You don't have to come with me."

She made a face. Cool and cruel in that playful Lois way. "Oh come on, Smallville, if I'm not around to save you, who will."

That's how it started.

And now, all these weeks later, they were here in this place.

This Fortress of Solitude.

And they were so close.

They knew everything. They had everything—

She had to admit she felt pretty good about it.

And Luthor thought his lawyers could scare them into silence. When the last year had only emboldened them. Lois especially had confessed to Perry and later Clark himself that she spent a lot of time, too much perhaps, feeling sorry. "I don't want to feel that way ever again," she said. "I tried doing nothing. So now I want to do something."

So they did. Together.

Lois Lane. Clark Kent.

A scad of Pulitzers between them. A couple of National Book Awards. Daytime Emmys for their investigative segments with WGBS. Together, their journalistic powers were awesome. Together they exposed criminals and conspiracies, and fought for the powerless in this dark place. They were heroes. And she had to confess, sitting here in this Fortress, putting this all together. Finally. It felt good. A tautology of hope.

She looked up from her PowerBook. Clark was there at her side. Smiling. She leaned over and kissed him. And said, "I think we're ready."

The PowerBook lit up. She tapped into her email and the text in it was a simple hyperlink that read 'Click Here'. So she did. Then a quicktime viewer opened.

It was—

Waller.

Lois glanced around the screen. Wherever Waller was, she was doing her usual nondescript thing. Part of Lois admired it: she didn't get where she was, Waller, by playing nice or doing the easy thing.

"So," Lois said. "The final piece of the puzzle?"

"You found the information on your own," Waller said. "This is just an update."

"I'm very grateful."

"Gratitude has nothing to do with it. I'm concerned with the future of humanity. I hope you and your husband are too."

"Why else would we be doing this?"

She sneered. As much as she could. "Add two more to your kill list."

"Alright?" Lois opened Word and got ready.

Waller said, "The Queen Bee. And the Green Arrow."

Lois stopped.

She even felt Clark, across the way and bent over his own laptop, pause and look up. Then he was at her side.

He said, "What?"

"You heard me," Waller said. "Oliver Queen. He and his sidekick were sniffing too close. I'm sorry for your loss, but he knew what he was getting into. Now, by the time Luthor discovers this video log in the tracked outbound calls, it'll be too late."

"Too late?" Clark asked.

"Going somewhere?" Lois cocked an eye.

"Packing up," Waller said. "Switzerland. Checkmate, rebuilding, and the Global Peace Agency. You both know there's a place for you if you want it. Alan Scott has agreed to it, as has Agent Chase. The offer stands and I hope you take it. You have unique insight."

"I appreciate that very much," Lois said. "But our place is here."

"Suit yourself," she said. "This will be my last communication. I wish you both good luck. And check your outside sensors. You have guests."

The screen went black. Disconnected. Lois made a face at Clark. "How the hell does she know this shit?"

He looked up. Through the hologram-statue of Jor-El and Lara, at the distant front gates. He squinted. He didn't need to. But he liked to. It was such an artifact of a muscle memory but he enjoyed it. In a dark age, it really was the little things. He smiled a little. In the clarity of x-ray vision he saw them coming.

The smile went away. He was going to have to explain Oliver to them.

* * *

Far out in the tundra, on a blasted white promontory an invisible jet landed.

And two people debarked.

Just two.

Two was enough.

Because things were actually happening. Finally happening.

Their world was on fire and there's only one thing to do when that happens. When all sense leaves your life and you have to make sense of things—when you have to make order out of chaos. When you have to do what you're not sure you can. Perhaps, even, what you're not sure you ever could do.

Fight. Be the hero. Set the example.

For them.

He felt old. Alone. But he wasn't. He had the biggest family on the planet and he was related to none of them. But time and circumstance have a funny way of bringing people together. Death and chance after all had stolen his parents. And he had spent so much of his life trying to make up for that. Trying to do everything in his power to control things.

For what was Batman, if not an effort to master the chaos of this appalling place.

An attempt to control death itself.

And her.

The princess.

The warrior.

The ambassador.

The heart.

Diana was all these things and more. Ancient and unknowable, yet known to visit Boston and later Gateway City's numerous artisan shops and restaurants and dine with the guests—invite them into her life by that most ancient and wonderful of rites called conversationalism, as if she had known them and they had known her all their days. She was magnetic like that. Everyone loved her. And she loved everyone.

Everyone.

Even Doctor Minerva—

Even Edgar Cizko—

Even Isabel Maru—

For all their faults.

She wanted them to be better than what they were.

And yet. She was not disappointed, she had to admit, when they roundly defeated her expectations. For all she imagined that you cannot love a thing and expect it to stay in its loved state forever, she also understood. People change. Things change. One cannot set foot in the same river twice—

Mnemosyne would not prefer such a thing.

What seemed more important—and most fabulous to her—was to maintain her love for this world, and the people in it, even the ones that wanted to kill her—in spite of change. That boundless entropy that threatened all things. Love in the face of fear. Love in the face of death.

Hope in the face of difficulty.

Sitting there with the Sibyl. In a strange cave, in a strange place that was not her home—because her home was gone—

Hope was all she had.

And so here they were.

The Batman and Wonder Woman.

They walked in silence over the snow. Bruce at least seemed inured to it. She stole glances at him every few moments and his face, what she could see of it, belied nothing.

She was enjoying it.

There was no snow on Themyscira, after all.

She remembers.

Years ago. During the war.

She chuckled at the memory.

Years ago.

On that train platform. There was a man with an ice cream cart. Her first experience with the delicacy.

She loved it. She remembers it so well.

It was wonderful.

Mother.

This world is worth saving.

I know this in my heart. So why do I keep telling myself?

They walked on in silence.

Eventually they came to the vast front gates to the fortress. And, more oddly, the simple blue welcome mat on the ice shelf before them. They moved in unison. Looked up at the gates. Down at the welcome mat.

Batman said, "He changes the security weekly."

She looked at him. "Sounds familiar."

"Very funny."

"The key," Diana said. She crouched and flipped up an edge of the welcome mat. Under it was a simple brass house key. She cocked her head and touched it—

The gates shuddered and opened.

A voice spoke: "Security code nine-thirteen. Welcome. Please follow the path towards the main gallery."

So they did.

He had changed things since they were last here.

The entrance was narrow. Unassuming in that Clark way. Lots of houses out there, why make a big one. His inner farm boy at work. But it opened into the main gallery: a wide circular crossing of a monument to Krypton. A cathedral in its own way. At the center and on an elevated precipice were hologrammatic statues of his parents, Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van. She kept her gaze on the statues as they entered. She wishes she could have known them. Jor-El and Lara. What stories they had.

She looked ahead. Batman had gotten ahead of her and was already at the computer terminal at the base of the holograms.

Clark and Lois were there too.

Clark, in full Superman regalia, looked up.

"My friends," he said with that cocksure smile. "Welcome."

Wonder Woman looked at the folding table there by the statues and the two laptops on it, littered among file folders, binders and notepads. "This is your filing cabinet?"

"Of course," Superman said. "I should have said. Lois and I made the decision recently to collate it all."

Batman did not move. He merely said, "For what?"

"For publication," Lois said.

A quiet moment followed.

Lois said, "We all know what Lex is. What he's done and what he'll continue to do. I've sat on my work for years. Work that confirms his illegal activities. Work that will put him away."

"With a congress," Batman said and his voice had an airy, revelatory tone. It was sinking in. "Willing to investigate. My god."

Lois nodded. "Time for change."

Diana looked away. "It's dangerous."

"It's necessary," Batman said.

"Yes," Superman said. Then he was at Lois' side, hand in hand. "The risk has always been worth it. I'm at a point in my life where major threats are decreasing. Metropolis is for the most part safe. The league puts out fires where it can. But I can tell you with no reservations that Luthor is the single largest threat I have ever faced. Now more than ever—with the resources he commands and his alliances all in a row. I can't fight him as Superman, but as Clark Kent I can unleash something even he can't stop."

Diana said, "What's that?"

Lois gestured to the desk around her. "A free press."

"…And this is all ready to go?" Batman asked.

Lois nodded. "We're fine tuning the last parts. Then, yes."

Batman pulled his cowl back, revealing the aging, sad face of Bruce Wayne.

Superman was silent. "There's something else you should all know. On a darker note."

Bruce looked at him and said, "What?"

"Oliver is dead."

Diana arched her head back and sighed. Started pacing.

"You're sure?"

"I am," Superman said. "My source in the White House just told us. I'm so sorry."

Diana looked at him. Superman looked at her—they seemed to lock eyes. She said—

"Clark, did Oliver send Roy to the plaza on election night?"

"Yes," Superman said.

"Oh gods..."

Batman was quiet. Looking at the floor.

Lois was watching him. She frowned, except a frown on Lois Lane was this really focused scowl. An inheritance of her father. She said, "Bruce?"

"I knew about it, too."

Superman breathed.

Diana looked at him.

"I sent Tim and the boys to watch things. I knew about the shooter, as well—Jenny Hubbard. Tim and I monitor interstate firearms sales. A series of cash transactions flagged from an Outdoor World in Kansas City. We followed the trail and began tracking her movements. A background check showed history with Luthor, an encounter in eighty-eight or eighty-nine, the records are spotty. We inferred she was going to make an attempt on his life but we couldn't get to her in time."

"And Cat Grant had to die too?" Clark said and scowled.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said.

Diana said, "What happened to Hubbard?"

Bruce said, "I can't find any eyewitness accounts but we think Luthor had the Secret Service kill her in the plaza the next day."

Lois leaned back in her seat and sighed.

Superman did not move. He stared at Bruce—and to his credit, Bruce stared right back. "You mentioned the boys. Was Conner part of this?"

"He volunteered with Tim."

"You should have consulted me! You should have said something before you committed to a plan that cost us lives!"

"You were going to publish your work anyway," Bruce said. "What difference does it—"

"No," Superman said and then he was in Bruce's face. He spoke quietly and forcefully and Bruce felt the power of Clark, the terrifying might of his anger, in his bones. "There's always a difference."

Superman turned away.

In the tense silence that followed, it all became so clear.

They had become part of Luthor's machine. Played by his rules. And now were complicit in monitoring him.

He was going to lose his mind over this. He was going to burn it all down over this.

Lois was drumming her fingers on her PowerBook.

Diana said, "We should be ashamed."

Lois said, "Haven't had the chance to run Oliver's case. But Jimmy and I have narrowed down Roy's killer to one of Lex's people. Mercy, probably, or Jenner. We've got the forensics from SCU ready to publish with the rest. But then…you, Bruce. You say you knew Roy was there. You say you knew Oliver sent him?"

"Tim called me," Bruce said. He had pulled his cowl back, his face revealed. Old and exhausted. He ran his hands through his hair. "He said he saw Roy. I told him to leave him be."

Diana said, "You what?"

"I couldn't risk them…joining up in the Plaza. Luthor was in the Tower. He would have known something was wrong."

"My god," Superman said. "And we were up here, Diana. How did we miss this."

"Alright," Diana said. "I need you to hear this. We need to let the truth have its day. That's the only way to put a check on this odious man—and if need be, remove him from office."

They all looked among each other.

"I'm not willing to go there," Superman said. "Publishing our material…the plan is to let it play out in the court of public opinion."

"He won't go quietly," Bruce said. "And you know it. He'll lie through his teeth and sweep this all away. Or kick off some war of distraction. My sources in the White House say he's unbalanced."

"Hey," Lois said. "Ours too."

Diana thought it over and said nothing.

Superman looked at Bruce. "I take it you're ready then? To remove him, like you said."

"I don't know," Bruce said. "But something has to be done."

Lois looked at her laptop. The screen lit up. "Oh," she said. "Clark."

"What is it," he said. He was by her side and soon Bruce and Diana were too. Looking at the GCN webpage.

"Something has happened in Bialya."

In silence they read the story.

Clark looked up and said, "Kelex, give me the news. Surround sound and video."

The main gallery darkened and a score of screens tessellated into existence. News channels from around the world.

Bialya burning.

Kahndaq closing its borders.

School shootings in Midway City.

Prison riots in Gotham.

And more.

The world on fire.

Bruce was talking into his gauntlet: "Tim?"

"I saw," came the voice from the other side of the world. "Dick and Helena are here. Major Crimes is at Blackgate, but we're going to Arkham."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"No," Tim said. "You do your thing and we can do ours."

Then, a voice echoing in the Fortress:

"Superman. This is the Martian Manhunter. I fear something terrible has happened."

Superman looked up. "J'onn?"

Then he was there. At Superman's side.

Together for a long moment they watched the news. Because—

Because sometimes that's all you can do.

Bear witness.

Time uncounted came and went.

On the televisions, they watched footage of Bialya's capital city burn. Not just burn, but explode, and each explosion shook the city and the camera filming it, some brave fool from CNN on the ground. Explosions. Fire. Death.

In Bialya.

In Starling. Even in Metropolis as Engel cut in to say riots had broken out in Centennial Park—

As the footage cut to a crowd pulling down Superman's statue there. The one they built after his death and resurrection.

And no words to do it all justice.

Superman collapsed.

Lois was at his side.

Diana turned away from the screens.

Bruce looked at J'onn and said, "What?"

The Manhunter from Mars sighed and the affair took his whole body. Broad green shoulders rose and fell as he came to terms with his choices.

"I was undercover in the White House. They discovered it. I believe this is in retribution. He means to destroy everything to stay in power."

"I know," Batman said. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes it does."

Superman stood.

He said, "It matters. All of this matters. And we do too."

Together they looked at the screens, at the world on fire.

"J'onn," Superman said and turned to face him. "Head back to the Watchtower. Call everyone. Dispatch our best teams to these hotspots. Help as much as we can."

J'onn said nothing. He nodded once, and flew away.

"The rest of you," Superman said. "I've spent too long feeling bad about this. Questioning myself, even to Lex. That ends now. This all ends now. He's my responsibility, and I'll deal with the consequences of my actions. I can't ask you to put your lives and your loved ones on the line for me."

Then he looked at Lois. Took her hands in his and shared a kiss and when it was done, he said, "I love you, Lois Lane. Until the end of time."

Then he looked at Batman and Wonder Woman. He said, "None of you have to go."

Batman and Wonder Woman looked at each other. Back at him.

Wonder Woman said, "Yes we do."

And this, as the years go by and the age of superheroes ends, will come to define Superman. Not his years of struggle against second-rate bank robbers, scientific monstrosities, or alien warlords, not even his famous twelve labors, his championing of the poor, his fighting of the corrupt, although those are all part of this moment—

This moment is something more.

This is the moment—

Wonder Woman.

Batman.

Lois Lane.

And Superman.

For one year their country has been in the hands of a super-villain.

The last super-villain.

Now, together.

They decide to take it back.

* * *

And in Metropolis, barricaded in Studio C in the Galaxy Communications Building, Godfrey's old stomping grounds, Mike Engel hunches over the desk:

"Good evening, I'm Mike Engel. Tonight we've been receiving spotty reports of civil unrest in this city, up the coast in Gotham, and indeed across the country. We have been unable to confirm or corroborate most of these stories. However, tonight, WGBS is able to confirm that the President of the United States will make a statement with the Vice President. We do not know the subject matter, and frankly given the images on our screens we cannot bear to speculate. Here now, from the White House, the President of the United States."

And in the East Room, in the White House, the People's House, the forty-third president of the United States, Alexander Joseph Luthor of Delaware, the richest, most powerful man in the world, walks up to the podium. Pete Ross, the estimable Vice President and two-term Senator from Kansas, is at his side.

Luthor stares into the camera as he walks and his eyes have the focused glare of a Great White Shark.

"Good evening. Tonight, we've been inundated with images of violence across our great land. I'm here to say, it ends now. This carnage stops now. I've asked the governors of California, Washington, Michigan, Delaware and New Jersey to consider deploying their National Guards to assist in the orderly cessation of hostilities and the arrest, where applicable, of the worst perpetrators of tonight's senseless acts. I'm pleased to say each of those governors has consented and deployed their National Guards to such an end. I've also recommended to the military district of Washington the fortification of the White House, the Capitol, and the Supreme Court should more dangerous rogue elements choose to make themselves known.

"But, I'd also like to speak from the heart if I could. It was no less than Theodore Roosevelt who told us all to get action, to get in the arena—not only for ourselves, but to lift up those who cannot lift themselves. It is the noblest act to which any of us can aspire, the role of helper: helping others, be they friends, family, or even strangers. Tonight, I am asking all of you to be helpers as we watch this violence on our screens. Reach out and let someone know you are there for them. Lift them up, as much as I now am asking you to lift us up. To continue the great work Pete and I began nearly two years ago when we saved the No Man's Land from the worse angels of its nature.

"My mother came here from Newfoundland, alone and poor. She was the surviving member of her family. She was saved by the kindness of others. And the lessons she passed on to me, stuck with me. No one gets through life alone. My parents raised me to believe that, and I still do. They raised me right. Unfortunately, they died when I was young. I wish they were here right now. I wish I could give my mother a hug and tell her it's all going to be alright. But I can't. After their deaths, I went to work.

"I went to work building LexCorp, building a company from a broom closet on the top floor of a great metropolitan newspaper. We manufactured consumer technologicals for a growing population that desperately craved them. We revolutionised air travel. We created philanthropic foundations in Metropolis and worked with the Special Crimes Unit to reduce crime rates and recidivism in Suicide Slum.

"I've been your CEO, and your constant listener, your scholarship provider, your friend, and your biggest champion. When your sons and daughters needed a leg up, I invited them to the LexTower to tour the science labs. I went door to door providing scholarships for underserved people who may have never had the chance at an education.

"I've stood alongside earth's greatest heroes, had the honor of saving this planet and working with some of the best women and men I've ever known. But my job titles have only told you what I've done. They don't tell you why.

"I do this because it's right.

"I wish my parents could have been with us longer. I wish they could have seen the better world we are building. The arc of the universe is long, as Doctor King once said, but it bends towards justice, and that is our direction as well.

"And if you are watching this American carnage on your screens and you're as sick of it as I am?

"Join us!

"It's a simple but powerful idea. A better world.

"To be better, we have to reach. Through pain, and tribulation, and fire. And we will. Reach for a big-hearted, inclusive country. The one we know we can be. A country, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.

"As I look at us, I see this has always been our destiny. We will always strive, and seek, and find—and one day become what President Reagan called called a City on a Hill.

"And if you agree, whether you're a Democrat, or a Republican, or an Independent like me, I hope you will join us!

"If you believe diversity is our strength, join us!

"If you believe in a balanced judiciary, join us!

"If you believe our wages can and should be better, join us!

"If you believe in a responsible economic policy, join us!

"If you believe climate change is real, join us!

"If you believe in the rights of LGBT Americans, in the rights of people of color, join us!

"If you believe in our shared human ability to make our world better, join us!

"If you believe the injustice of our day and age cannot stand, join us!

"If you believe the future of mankind is a future to believe in, join us!

"Yes, the world is watching. Yes we are being judged. So let's do this. While we still can.

"Join us.

"Join me."

* * *

 _ **Continued…**_


	18. The Age of Superheroes

_**TIME**_  
 _ **Man of the Year 2000:  
Lex Luthor **_

"…In a year when Bill Clinton did his best to save Gotham City, stave off an impeachment, and secure Al Gore as a successor to his eight years of deficit-reduction, attention-getting, and spirit-raising, it seems inevitable that someone like Lex Luthor would come along. Rather than see the electoral refusal of Mister Gore as a refutation of Clinton, we choose to see it perhaps as a contra-indication: more simply, voters wanted someone else. Mister Luthor rightly saw a void between what was, and what could be—a hoary normal contest between Democrat and Republican—and leapt into the arena.

"Certainly the argument was made that Mister Gore would continue the Clinton agenda, that his presidency would be more of a good thing. And yet: status quo is a four letter word anymore, and historically the electorate reacts predictably to it. In a sample by this very magazine on the eve of the 2000 Election, forty-six per cent of respondents said they would vote for a candidate other than either Mister Gore or Mister Bush, his Republican opponent, because a third party would "shake things up." And shake things up Mister Luthor has. His fossil fuel sunset bill is expected to head to the House within the first hundred days, an exploratory committee has begun lobbying to add his likeness to Mount Rushmore, and there are talks, however specious, of a Nobel Peace Prize for his humanitarian efforts in Gotham and for his efforts in Metropolis during the so-called Cadmus bombing and the Final Night.

"Yet all of this falls second in our estimation to his known criminal deeds in the past, crimes for which his predecessor pardoned him. A host of RICO violations, suspicious human resource issues from within LexCorp, and his contentious at best relationship with Superman and the Justice League of America, have cast no small pall on Mister Luthor's presidency-to-be. Now on the eve of assuming the highest office in the land, Lex Luthor positions himself as a superior recusant, a pilgrim supplicant, on the road to Damascus. For this reason, his capacity for good, Lex Luthor is _TIME_ 's Man of the Year."

* * *

And this, then, is how the Age of Superheroes comes to an end.

It does not end tonight in Washington, DC. Not in the Oval Office as Superman and Lex Luthor will, in about thirty minutes, try to discuss what's happening to their doomed world. Not out on E Street as Batman and Wonder Woman will, in about ten minutes, fight Mercy Graves, Richard Jenner, and John Corben. No. It ends, as most things end, in a whimper. In the slow realization of age and the recognition that the world you have is not the one you had. Or the one you want.

It's a response to age, really.

Tonight?

Tonight is the beginning of the end.

It ends twelve years from now on the roof of the LexCorp Tower, while Superman and Lex Luthor have another conversation about their doomed world. The last one they'll ever have.

It started fifteen years ago in Metropolis, when a nondescript flew out of a crowd and saved the proto-shuttle Constitution as it malfunctioned and veered toward the crowd. Eventually that nondescript came forward. He went public. He made a fool of Lex Luthor. He died fighting the desecration without name, a genetic relic of his home world, and rose again. He created the Justice League. An age of heroes began, and in it some of the bravest men, women, and children saved the world from monsters, dictators, evil gods, and themselves.

It was Lois Lane of the _Daily Planet_ who gave him the name Superman. A response to the diamond sigil on his chest which was, as he explained, the crest of his house, as well as an ideogram in his native language. Hope was the lodestar of his world, his greatest wish, and his greatest legacy. Hope has carried Superman, Clark Kent, Kal-El, the immigrant from the stars, forward in life and has colored his every decision. The hope that the criminal, corrupt nature of the world he loved would not last. The hope that humans could overcome their baser instincts and accede to better choices, better living, so that one day, they may no longer need him. The hope to become a responsible shepherd for these people and this planet that had adopted him. The hope that even his enemies would one day overcome their hatred of him and learn to live better lives.

But even before that. Before his establishment here—

It started with a doomed planet.

With two murders in Crime Alley.

With the creation of an Amazon champion.

With the birth of an Atlantean king.

With a bolt of lightning.

With the finding of a ring.

And Dr Erdel's grand accident.

It started with so many things, really. And twelve years from now all those things will mean nothing

He closes his eyes. Superman does. Beneath him—all around him—he feels the quantum entanglements of this world. The impossible materials that allow this invisible jet to exist and to fly. He feels the strength, of Diana's bracelets. They are made of the Golden Fleece and stronger than he is. He feels the beats of her heart. Slow and purposeful. Without malice or hatred. With love and purpose and direction.

He feels the Kevlar lining of Bruce Wayne's suit. Feels the electrical impulses firing in the man's brain, the feverish workings of a brain trying to justify this action. Feels every scar on the man's body, the wages of a lifetime fulfilling a mission. To rid his city of the evil that took his parents lives. He sits there in his suit, shaped like a creature that frightened him as a child, and he does not move. Clark sees his eyes, shut behind starlite lenses in the cowl, and the rhythmic calmness in the man's heart.

Clark Kent is remembering.

This will be the last time he'll have the chance.

Father.

We're going to do it.

My god.

We are going to remove the sitting President of the United States from his position. A vile, evil man, who has killed and corrupted his way to power. Who has no intention of giving up that power. Who will destroy the world to maintain his power—

Because he feels it's owed to him.

And I, Father?

What of me.

What a selfish thought.

When has selfishness ever propelled human development.

He breathes.

He remembers.

Going to the Fortress as a young man. Finding it, really. And the hologrammatic image of his father. Jor-El.

Surely the greatest of his kind.

They can be a great people, Kal-El.

They wish to be.

They only lack the light to show the way.

He breathed.

And opened his eyes.

Clark Kent—

Superman—

Stands. He goes to one side of the cabin.

He waits.

For this reason.

Their capacity for good.

I have sent them you, my son.

He looks at the door, then turns and looks at Batman.

Even behind the cowl, he sees the lines, the worry, on Bruce's face. "What is it?"

Wonder Woman is there, then. She says, "The jet is on autopilot. It will return to the Watchtower after we jump. Lois is en route to the White House with Jimmy. I hope they arrive in time." Then she looks at Clark.

Father.

He's just a man.

The government will go on. Life will go on. And the Justice League's reputation will survive. And yet.

What does this world become if I assert my will?

"All these years," Clark said. "Fighting him. I fear what will become of us."

A silent moment comes and goes.

Batman says, "This is the only way now. And we have to live with that."

Superman looks up.

And—

His posture straightens. His face turns.

Because—

He looks at Batman and Wonder Woman. He flips the handle and the door blasts open. In the torrential furor and the night air screaming past, he yells over it and his voice is calm but powerful. Stern and affectionate. Like a father. Like a friend.

He says, "Thank you," and it's quiet. A whisper of gratitude.

Superman smiles.

And jumps.

But he doesn't fly. No.

For the first few minutes he free falls. He allows gravity to pull him down and enjoys the few moments of peace. He smiles as the night air, this far up, mingles with the radiant solar heat and he feels it flow over him like a supernova. He turns and looks at the Earth.

It is so beautiful, Father. Worth treasuring in every way.

He squints and sees Wally West in faraway Keystone. A lightning storm in the shape of man. Trying desperately save his rioting city.

He sees Dinah Lance in Starling: the high school explosion has spread to the star-shaped forest in the center city. She is with Connor Hawke, Oliver's son, trying to stop it.

He sees Tim Drake, and Conner, and Bart Allen, in San Francisco helping firefighters contain a blaze in a string of rowhouses.

He sees Carter Hall in St Roch, having a conversation with the Gentleman Ghost.

He sees Black Adam in far-off Shiruta.

He sees Ra's al Ghul in the charred desert of Bialya.

He looks back and sees Wonder Woman and Batman following him. She's in a dive, arms tight at her sides. Batman is too, his cape fluttering in the wind.

The earth comes toward them. Slowly.

Eventually Washington DC draws closer in his sight. And eventually they land.

The city is quiet. Too quiet. He frowns and squints. Guns on the roof of the White House, armed guards around the perimeter and inside the fence. All around the lawn. And they are looking up.

They know he's coming. That's okay. He's gotten used to being expected.

E Street runs east-west, north of the Ellipsis. It's quiet and empty but it shouldn't be. And it disturbs him. The last quiet street he landed on was—

The No Man's Land.

The last time Luthor held all the cards. The last time they spoke.

The skies are clear and since they are clear he takes the time to see the turn of the earth. A Christmas festival in Chicago. A football game in Cleveland. Shoppers in Montreal. Far north in Maine, Arthur Curry is having a conversation with Mera at Amnesty Bay. He makes a note of it all. Of life going on. Because he's fairly certain it's the last time he'll have the chance to do that, too.

He looks at the White House. And sees nothing.

My god.

He's covered this one in lead too.

Beyond the iron fence, the soldiers are pacing back and forth now. Staring at him. Waiting. He sees their hearts pounding in their chests. They're ready. Or lying and saying they are.

He cocks his head.

Something feels—

He looks to one side of the street.

A man walking towards them, his clothes shredded, dangling from him like some horror film monster. Bare arms that were human once, so very long ago, now metal and glinting in the twilight. They weren't human arms. They were chrome. Steel. Metal. All the synonyms. Part of his human face was gone too, revealing the steel jaw underneath.

This was John Corben. In a previous life, at least. Now he's a machine man with a poison heart. He's Metallo. Created by Luthor long ago, ten years if a day, but he's gone through so many iterations since their first meeting it was no longer the case that LexCorp hardware ran through him. He was in some ways what he always wanted to be. What he hoped years of mercenary work for the Kasnian royal military would make him. A self-made man.

"Corben," Superman says and shakes his head. "I am disappointed."

"Really," Metallo says. "I'm not."

"I saw the news," Superman says. "The vandalism at the Daily Planet. Your handiwork, I assume."

Metallo bows. "I was hired to fulfill a contract. Just like the old days."

"What do you need money for, John?"

Metallo shrugs. "Maybe I just wanted another shot at you."

"You've got it now." Superman cracks his knuckles and squares up.

It happens in slow motion.

Wonder Woman steps between them and hits Metallo so hard that he flies away from them. Up in the air. Back down the street in a high arc. Wonder Woman looks back at Superman. She says, "Leave him to me. You go."

Superman turns.

The gates on the South Lawn open.

And out comes Mercy Graves.

Luthor's most reliable accomplice. He's known her for years. She's driven, like Luthor. And came from nothing, like Luthor. She has a square reassurance to her, a grace that reminds him of Diana. But still. She is who she is. And she's stood by Luthor's side through all of this. Through all these murders and crimes and plain old lies. She stands there, arms folded over her chest, and she doesn't say a word. Just stares at him.

Jenner joins her, a miserable strong-man in a tacky blue suit. Of course Clark knows him, too. Richard Jenner was Lex Luthor's schoolyard bully. A bully turned servant. It was a long time ago. A journalist named Peter Sands came close to uncovering Luthor. Sands was killed. Clark was implicated and quickly cleared. Though it was also clear that Lex was behind the murder and the lazy frame-up. That was the start of the filing cabinet, really. Luthor's first testing of Clark's secret identity.

Looking back it all seemed so clear.

Everything that had happened. And everything that was going to happen.

And here now.

He realises the final horror.

Luthor's greatest scheme...

Was never becoming President.

It was...

Did you plan for this too, Lex.

Did you count on me coming here.

And if so.

If so.

To what end?

"You don't have to do this," Superman tells Jenner and Mercy.

And Mercy cracks her knuckles and says, "Yes we do."

And that happens in slow motion, too.

Jenner throws the first punch.

The Batman catches it. Throws it back in his face. And then—

The Batman is in his element.

Fighting criminals.

Superman leaves them to it.

He lifts himself into the air. Over the fence. Onto the lawn.

Among the Army and the national guardsmen in their beige and green BDUs, M-16s close in hand, there are DEO guards there in their customary brown and black riot gear. Translucent shields and riot batons, bandoliers of zipties and gas grenades up all their shoulders. He scans the lot of them. Especially the Army boys. Officers and enlistees. He reads their dog-tags. Boys. Barely men. He thinks of Conner. He thinks of Jimmy. And he thinks of his Pa.

At least the Army boys and the National Guardsmen are wearing helmets. At least he can see their faces. And they can see his. But the DEO guys, the more heavily armored ones. Their visors are the kind SWAT teams use, they cover their whole faces and DEO makes theirs the black-out kind. Anonymity, Clark well knew, was the perfect hiding place for the worst offenses.

He frowns.

He focuses his sight. And looks from one side of the crowd to the other. He takes the time to look each one of them in the face. This, too, happens in slow motion. Behind him he can hear Wonder Woman and Metallo screaming and fighting each other down the street. Mercy flipping around Batman with a series of impressive judo flurries. Jenner's right hook seems tame in comparison. But next to the Batman, they're nothing. The fight is over before it starts.

He focuses back on the men before him.

A few of them look among themselves. At each other.

Another moment comes and goes.

He tried to say something.

But.

What to say.

What not to say.

Father.

He closes his eyes.

And he is eighteen years old again.

He is in the truck with Pa and Ma. On the way to the prom. "They've never seen anything like you, Clark. And if they did a lot of em would be afraid." And Clark: "Is that why you're making me go? Pretend like I'm everyone else, when everyone else thinks I'm a loser?" And Pa: "No one thinks that, Clark. Where's Lana?" "Pete took Lana."

And Ma smiling: "Well, I'm sure Lana's saving you a dance."

"One day," Pa says, "You'll let the world in on your secret, Clark. And I'll tell you something, son, I cannot wait for that day. I really can't." It's a variation on a line Pa has used pretty much since the beginning. One day, you're gonna change the world, Clark. One day you're gonna show the world what kind of man you are. He agrees with Pa, like always, but lacks conviction. Maybe he has hope Pa is right. But in those days hope is a far-off thing.

He hears them in the truck. Later. Driving away. He is sitting on the bleachers and the gymnasium is an assault on his senses, it's so decorated, so loud and bright and obnoxious and all he wants to do is go tell Lana who he's pretty sure he loves the truth. He hears them. "Don't worry too much, Martha. He's never gotten so much as a paper cut. He can't be hurt." "But Clark's alone." "He has you and me." "And we won't be around forever." "I wish we could've given him more. A brother or sister." "Me too, Martha." "But this is God's plan—"

Pa never gets to finish that sentence. A drunk driver cuts a stop sign and t-bones the truck. Jonathan and Martha Kent die that night.

He opens his eyes. Here. Now. On the South Lawn of the White House.

They've moved to actually pointing their guns at him.

He says—

"You all know me. You know what I stand for. If you believe it's worth fighting for, too, help me change things. Help me send a message. Truth, Justice, and the American Way aren't just words or ideas. They're more than dreams. They're a promise."

It doesn't happen all at once. Some of them keep their guns on him the whole time—the whole time he walks from the wrought-iron fence up to the entrance. Still others drop their guns. Most of them let him pass. They part and it's like Moses before the ocean. Right down the middle. All the way up to the door. He walks. The whole way. Some of the soldiers bow their heads. Others nod. Some more just glare. He keeps walking.

When he reaches the doors, he stops.

And standing there in the threshold—

General Sam Lane, in his finest uniform, holding a Colt forty-five and pointing it right at Superman's face—

"That's far enough, Kent."

* * *

 _ **Continued...**_


	19. Cat and Mouse

**The Secretary of Defense**  
Washington, DC

Mr President,

With great regret I must inform you that I tender my resignation, with immediate effect. It has been my honor to serve the men and women who in turn serve our country every day, and it is to them I extend my most heartfelt thanks for their steadfast support over the years, their unwavering duty, and the depth of feeling many have personally extended to me. Our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines are an indispensable group. To those reading this now, I wish you long and happy lives in freedom.

Thank you also for you support as well, Mister President. I wish you much success in the future.

Very Respectfully,

General Sam Lane

USAF

* * *

Lois and I were professional colleagues for years. Eventually we began courting. I still didn't meet him until I was about to marry Lois. Until she was almost no longer his little girl. If indeed she ever was. Lois always—she answered to no one. Not Perry when she published an especially salubrious exposé on Morgan Edge. Not the publishers when they tried to fire her—five times by now by my count, although she would say only four really counted. Certainly not her father, the intractable, incomparable General Lane.

Perhaps this is why they never got along.

Or perhaps he saw something in her which he hated in himself. I'm not a therapist. I don't pretend to understand the human mind. But as the years went by I watched their relationship stagnate. Watching from the sidelines it was a tense thing, to hear her clipped voice in telephone calls with him. The disagreements. The arguments. I can't imagine what it must have been like.

I think of a conversation she and I have. A long time ago. We're up late one night talking. She tells me about her time working for her college newspaper _Nimbus_. How the student editorial board is becoming, in her words, a gang of soft effetes afraid of the truth. She tells me she writes up a scathing resignation and sends it off to the student editor who she is also dating. He does not publish it and she finds that out, so she spends the dollar fifty in the library to make copies and pepper them about campus. She calls upon the student body to unite and seek out the truth. And although none of them answer her call at the time, she is eventually vindicated. Years later when she is fresh and young at the _Planet_ the news breaks that her old editor-slash-boyfriend was helping the University cover up a host of violations in exchange for a sweet post-graduate sinecure. Or something. Small potatoes to some. But not Lois. She writes him a letter and promises to never let him forget. To date she hasn't. Every year in the spring. Dear Collin, she writes, are you still defrauding people? He never sends a response. But she knows. She enjoys needling him. And she carries that with her for the rest of her life. She carries it into a relationship—at first working then soonly romantic—with Lex Luthor as he builds his empire from a broom closet on the top floor of the _Planet_ building. Eventually they move off and eventually I meet her years after that.

It is 1986. I am twenty-one years old and a Cub Scout of a reporter. I have just graduated from the University of Metropolis and its Wayne Boring School of Journalism. It is a top-ranked program: graduate from it and you write your own ticket. But I am listless. Something calls to me and I'm not sure what it is. So I leave Metropolis. I travel. I find myself in Paris contemplating the meaning of life. Soon I fall under the wing of Ed Wilson, a veteran of the _Daily Planet_ who in his own words is rediscovering the virtue of Hemingway on a European sabbatical. In later years, as I age and I come to understand my universe, I am convinced meeting Ed is no accident. Following him for those long months—long months that now seem so small even in my memory—is meant to be.

We end up in Africa from Paris. Eventually, Mexico. Cuidad Juarez. He begins to instill another virtue in me, that of subjectivity. You can't report on a story until you become the story. By the time I am working for the _Daily Planet_ , I believe what Ed has taught me as a matter of course. The feeling of a story. In your bones. I see it in Lois, too, once I meet her. Although her approach is more pugilistic—she cites Theodore Roosevelt often and speaks of the arena of journalism. Maybe she's right. It is in many ways a spectacle, reporting is. You put yourself and your work out there and the public, if they engage with you, debates and destroys and analyzes every last bit of it. Every bit except one. The bit that is still you. The secret heart you put into every story. And it is transitive: you carry each story with you, too.

We are the sum of our stories.

It is the summer of 1986. Ed and I are standing in Bryce Canyon National Park and he fires me after I tell him of my powers. I express my doubts, and fears. As always. He calls my existence a miracle. I'm not sure it is. He says he writes with the audacious hope that his words might effect change. That they might turn a light on the darkness. Inspire someone to seek a little justice. He says words are the only tools he has. But. Again. My existence measured against his is the real miracle. He fires me. Tells me: "time for you to fly."

I never see him again.

I can't bring myself to go home. If I do it will be Ma and Pa and Lana. And everything that can't give me the answers I am seeking.

It is the fall of 1986. I am at the international airport, south of Metropolis. The Air Force is launching the first of a fleet of proto-shuttles. Inspired by and meant to be better than Challenger, which failed only months before. The first in the line is called the Constitution. I stand in a throng of people. I read through the press release. The next shuttle in the line is to be called Freedom. Independence. Liberty. And so on and so forth.

There is a sweet old woman by my side with grey hair under a translucent coverup. She is shorter than me, and tortoise shell glasses teeter at the edge of her upturned nose. She smells of Arpège and the countryside. I wonder if she and her dimutive husband have made the long drive from a far-off place. Kansas perhaps, maybe Missouri. She is sweet and reminds me of Ma. She asks me what I'm doing with the pen and notepad and I tell her I'm trying to break in as a reporter at the _Daily Star_. George Taylor is a well-known publisher, and the _Star_ is a paper of impeccable reputation. Years later I find out that Luthor owns it, and has Taylor bought and paid for. And has for years. But at the time, when I am young, scrappy and hungry, I take what I think I can get.

Lois is aboard the Constitution. Part of the press pool. I can see her when I focus. I see her in my memory—

In mid-flight, the proto-shuttle fails. Veers toward the crowds. Smoke billows up and away from one wing. Blotting out the sky. As I lift into the sky and towards the Constitution's resonant yaw I hear the crowd screaming.

It all seems so perfunctory.

I save the Constitution. I land it safely and Lois finds me. I know her. I have never met her before this moment but I know her. And all these years later I feel like I still know her. Her story has become intertwined with mine. It's a miracle, in many ways. And I'm talking so clinically about it now. I hear her voice. In my memory. I see her face.

"Hold it right there."

I hear her over the chatter around us. The crowd is still rushing the shuttle there on the tarmac. For the moment she and I are alone in the eye of the storm. She asks me who I am. How did I save her life. Her voice shakes on the last sentence. "You saved my life…you saved my life…"

I say nothing. I am watching the atoms dance on her skin. Watching the chemical release in her brain that signals elation. Intrigue, too, perhaps. Watching the nerves in her brain, her heart, and her face light up. She says, "I should thank you for that before I interrogate you, shouldn't I? Sorry. Why are you staring at me like that."

I smile. "You're Lois Lane." Quieter: "You're a talented reporter. I like your stuff."

In my mind I have already decided against the _Daily Star_. I know I want to work with her instead. To learn from her. To spend more time with this woman who stokes my curiosity. I travelled the world with Ed and on my own looking for answers to a question I wasn't even sure needed asking.

I have so many questions.

Why am I here.

Why am I so different from them.

A hologrammatic version of my father, Jor-El, the greatest mind on my home planet, once gave me some anodyne response about my physiology. My powers. But something remains. Something ethereal.

I feel like I see the answer to these existential questions in this moment.

In her.

Jor-El tells me I will give these people something to aspire to. In time, I will help them accomplish wonders.

I want to accomplish something with Lois.

Something more meaningful to me in this youthful moment than the superheroic life I will end up leading.

A life.

Happiness.

We could—

She looks away. Glances briefly at the Constitution there on the tarmac and glances back. But I am gone. I am seeing her from orbit. And of course, from memory.

A week later I am drinking black coffee and a cold slice of cherry pie in a Ralli's Diner on the east end of Suicide Slum. I am hiding in plain sight. Denim coat, mud-caked jeans, a black toboggan and five day old scruff. Lois is sitting in the booth behind me having a conversation with someone named Jimmy. Lois thinks I am following her. I'm not. But again—I start to take stock of my life and the coincidences in it and I start to believe that nothing just happens.

That we are all in—

Here together and it's just—

—we are all we've got.

An imperfect haiku.

Jimmy asks her what's in the bag. She asks him if he ever worked with Ed Wilson. "Damn fine newspaperman. City beat, world, government, back to City before me. They buried him yesterday." She says Ed's sister gave Lois his blue fedora as a memento. Ed and Lois knew each other. "Ed loved Metropolis," Lois says. "He said Metropolis was a model for the very best and the very worst we had to offer. That guy was a bulldog when it came to cracking a story. The truth was his blood. He was a role model to me in a lot of ways." Jimmy tells her he is sorry. Lois hangs the blue fedora on a peg on the wall, just above the tabletop jukebox.

She and Jimmy get up to leave. She says a few words in Ed's honor. When I am sure they've gone, I twist back over the top of the booth and regard the hat.

Time for you to fly.

A week later I am standing on Fifth Avenue and the city hums around me. it sings. I think of the article Lois has by now published in the _Planet_ about me.

Superman.

She called me Superman.

I look up in the sky. It's a beautiful day and the sun is streaming through the skyscrapers.

I think of that time in my life often. When I need reorienting. When I need to be reminded why I'm here and what I'm doing. Willpower, as Hal Jordan once told me, is not just the ability to keep going. It's the ability to get up when you get knocked down. To strive, to seek, to find. And not to yield.

And of course, other things happen.

A storied career.

Meeting true friends and neighbors. Saving the world so many times, and yet I challenge myself to keep count. Always keeping the words of my parents in mind, may they rest in peace. Always keeping Ed Wilson in my mind too. Time for you to fly. And so I did. And I have. And I'll continue to do. As long as this planet, so beautiful, so flawed and so deserving of love, will have me.

Meeting Lois.

Meeting and fighting all my enemies. Corben and Maxwell Jensen and Winslow Schott and Oswald Loomis. And other things.

An alien super intelligence calling itself Brainiac.

The god of evil and the hordes of Anti-Life.

And Lex.

Among all the others and over the long years these men become my most persistent foes. Over the years these men give themselves codenames and some of them develop amazing abilities. But I tell them all, and none more repeatedly than Corben who seems to be the most intransigent, that their names mean nothing to me. They are still men, and criminals. Even poor Winslow, who I still hope gets the help he needs. They are men and men commit the worst atrocities. And I tell them every time I throw them in to Stryker's that I will not play the game by their rules.

But I do.

Day after day. Year after year.

It's like cat and mouse.

Luthor at least seems to understand.

Perhaps this is why he hates me so.

I died fighting Doomsday in the year nineteen ninety-two. I find out in later years that in my death, Luthor visits Centennial Park, my symbolic burial site. In a fit of rage he kicks and screams at the statue. He barks that it's not fair. That it should have been him that killed me. That he should have gotten some finality.

Perhaps he's right.

Perhaps he'll get the chance one day.

Life is long after all, and things change.

After my death and resurrection, I finally meet Sam Lane.

He is cold and polite. We visit him in Tacoma, where he is on assignment at McChord Air Force Base. Lois tells me he is here on some top secret project and I am sure it has something to do with me, because certain buildings on-base are coated in lead. I try my best to see through them—to push that particular limit—as we are allowed entrance to the base and admission to the central building. His adjutant is a tall and polite young man who I only know by the name Harrison on his uniform. He leads us into Lane's office.

"Hi, Dad."

"Lois."

"This is Clark Kent."

"Ah." He shakes my hand and it is the firm grab of a man asserting his power. I'm not interested in it. And it tells me more or less what I need to know about him. He is powerful, controlling, and getting old. He fears losing what he considers permanent power in the process of aging. There is something in me that does not like him, and something that recriminates me for thinking that. But I smile and tell him it is a pleasure, a genuine pleasure. He creates a stern expression for himself. A wall.

A fortress of solitude.

And as I am here in Washington, DC now, reliving these memories on my slow walk up to the White House, it occurs to me that Sam Lane has spent the last twenty years finding ways to fight me. With Cadmus. With Luthor.

And none of them worked.

They must not have.

Otherwise—

He or Luthor would have unleashed Stryker's finest upon me. The Parasite and poor Winslow. Loomis and his toys. Doomsday, if he was desperate. He and Luthor would have made a spectacle. Blamed me for it. Created a narrative that I'm dangerous and must be eliminated.

The truth—

Is that he has already done this.

I see the world burning, far away from here. Luthor and his conspirators trying to create a narrative. Eliminate their enemies, or competitors who would destroy the world that much faster. Or remake it in an image untenable to Luthor.

Because in the final analysis—

He has always imagined himself as a supreme arbiter. He makes the choices. He calls the shots.

Clark.

The voice of Pa in my head. One day, in elementary school when an argument with Whitney overheats and he punches me in the face and I punch him back and send him flying against the wall.

Pa in the truck with me. Driving me home.

I am angry and there is a bruise thickening up under one eye.

"You know you can't just do this kind of thing, Clark."

"I know," I say and I look away.

"What if you hurt him worse? Hm?"

"I know," I say. "I'm sorry. I told Whitney I was."

"I know that too, son. So what did you learn?"

"Pa, he's a bully. I don't like it."

I feel his hand on my shoulder then. It's warm and firm. He is trying to comfort me and I'm an angry kid who's just not having it. Pa says he understands. He's been there. I believe him. "But you can't hit them back," he says. "You play by their rules, you're bound to lose. Try thinking about different ways to win."

I look out the window. After a minute: "I can take the hits."

"It's not about that either, Clark."

"Then what am I supposed to do."

He says nothing. We keep driving.

By the time we get home and pull into the barn, he just says, "You'll know. When the time comes."

And here now—

In Washington, DC—

In the threshold of the White House, the People's House—

Staring General Sam Lane in the eye—

I think I finally know what to do.

He points the gun, the silly little thing, right at me. He says, "That's far enough, Kent."

"You figured it out."

"That and more, you diseased maniac. Turn your happy ass around right now while you still can. Walk away."

It's an empty threat and he knows it. We both do.

"It's nice to see you, General."

"Oh spare me."

"I mean it. You're an important part of Lois' life and mine as well."

"Don't do that. She's not part of this."

"But she is. We are all part of this. And I am here to ask you to reconsider things."

"I said that's enough!"

I see his heart again. Racing. Fearful, as ever. He tells me he should have killed me a long time ago. That he figured it all out a long time ago.

I shake my head. "Why are you doing this? Taking orders from Luthor? While he institutes a reign of terror around the world and sets himself up as the savior? General, please think clearly."

A moment comes and goes.

"I am thinking clearly."

"If that were true, I wouldn't be here. Neither would Lex."

That got him. He sinks as soon as I say Luthor's name. He stands there silent, blindly aghast, looking away. Down at himself. But trying to control himself. All the years of his life, his fundamental makeup, all his schemes have been about control.

"Sam."

The tightening of his fingers around the world he's created. Perhaps. Or the world he controls. In the silent eternity between us, he seems to understand. He looks up at me. His face is blanched and has that bewildered look. The onset of great truth. At great cost.

"Please. Help me fix this."

He looks down at himself.

Behind me I hear engines rumbling. Cars and vans coming up the street.

I turn to see them.

CNN. GCN. NBC. ABC. All of them. Followed swiftly by Capitol Police trying to cordon them off.

I see Lois and Jimmy climbing out of the WGBS van. Jimmy appropriates a camera and looks at it in a panic. Lois tells him to just hit the button and roll.

General Lane is looking at her too.

I look back at him but he's still looking beyond me. Down at the fence. His face—

Kind of—

Cracks.

When he speaks, it's a small wet croak from the back of his mouth. "Is that…"

I am still looking down the lawn. The DEO guards and armed soldiers have moved off. The view is clear and beautiful. It has to be. It's Lois. And—

As much as I am looking at my wife down there among her friends and colleagues, watching as she sets up her equipment and calms her breathing and smoothes her pantsuit and gets into position with the White House framed behind her—

He is seeing this too. He is seeing his little girl do the same things. In refutation of him.

I think of Pa and Ma and how I'll never see them again.

I think of Jor-El who I never even really met.

What I'd give—

To have even a minute with them again.

I look back at him. "She brought them here to tell the truth, Sam."

And then I realize it.

He has not seen her since that day in Tacoma.

It was six years ago.

Six years and they haven't seen each other.

He looks at me.

"Is she happy?"

"Yes."

He breathes. The stillness, the rigidity of him just fades. In the moment that follows I feel like I see the real Sam Lane. The Sam Lane no one knows. The one that sees his daughter finding belonging and love. The things he could never give her. And his cold hard realization of that.

He steps aside.

"Go."

I wait.

Look at him. And back down at the gathering press pool there at the fence.

He glances up at me. He nods.

I return it.

In the moment before I walk inside, I look to the east. Focus my gaze.

Far away lies Bialya.

She burns.

* * *

Inside—

It's the end.

He knew that there were other worlds. A multiverse of options out there that for one or two superficialities were exactly the same as ours. He knew, Superman did, that in one universe, he and Luthor fought to the death. Man to Man. Under a red sun and so on equal footing.

He knew that on another, Lex Luthor became President and with Brainiac took over the world.

He knew that on another, Luthor became President and killed the Flash. Doing so kicked off the Super War and turned the Justice League into tyrants.

And yet.

In this moment, Superman found himself overcome by memory. And pain. Humility, alongside hope. It is a strange sensation but in some respect it was his default state. Curiosity at the affairs of Man, and a willingness to help them achieve positive ends.

And—

Bialya. Kahndaq.

Children.

Father.

What have I done.

He closes his eyes, walking down the hall. He tuned out the electromagnetic chatter outside. He turned his attention from Jimmy and Lois and the rest. Away from the nation tuning into this. He hears Lois broadcasting. Superman has just entered the White House, she tells the nation. We are not sure why.

And this place is empty. He didn't bother to wonder why. But he suspected perhaps that Luthor sent them all home. Like he used to do at the LexTower when he was sure Superman was coming to kill him.

His flaw.

I don't kill.

Not even you, Lex.

He knew there were universes out there in the multitude where he has killed. Or does kill. He knew there were worlds out there where he asserted his will and became something terrible. Where the legacy of Krypton, it's awe and splendor, became twisted and ugly. A malformed thing in service to anti-life and the forces of darkness. He did not suppose he would ever visit those universes. Meet those versions of himself. Or what those versions must be like. If they were him, in some way.

Those versions of Lex.

Perhaps...

This was his plan all along. Not just become President and lord accomplishments over me.

But to remake the world. Into the ugly thing he always imagined it was.

My god.

He pushed the door open and went inside.

"Hello."

An eternity passed between them in the sepulchral gloom of this place. This Oval Office.

He never hated anyone before. Clark Kent. Never. Even Whitney and their childhood fights. Even Pete Ross and what Clark came to understand was a failure of friends to realize their divergent paths in life.

"I came to talk."

The shadow spoke. "You never want to talk."

"You never want to listen."

"And yet. Here we are."

Superman stepped forward. He seemed to glow in the darkness.

"You know something about where I am, though, don't you, Kent."

"I've proven what you've done."

"Have you, now?"

"Don't lie to me," he said.

His eyes—

Started burning.

"I was prepared to ask you nicely to fix this all. To go on television, make a speech for peace. I was going to appeal to your better nature."

The shadow stood. Out of the blackness came Lex Luthor.

"But," Superman said and his eyes dimmed. "I don't think you have one."

Luthor frowned.

Superman said, "I was supposed to inspire good. I started out wanting that. So many years ago when the Constitution malfunctioned and Lois almost died. Perhaps aspiration was the problem. I dreamed too big. Or maybe—"

His eyes sparked to life again.

"Maybe I should do what you always imagined I should. Assert my will. What then, Lex?"

He walked up to the desk. A foot away from him. This man. This monster.

This super-villain. This—

No.

A man. Just a man.

Powerless. Human. Afraid.

"Maybe you were right," the god in the blue suit said. "They wanted a messiah. Perhaps I gave them that. And you, Lex. When they look at you they see what they are."

Or so he thought. Good, alongside bad. The baseline venality of man, but you've made something of yourself. We both have.

"Perhaps we are both miracles. We come from nothing and to nothing we will eventually return. You know this. One day. I'm going to die. And you are too."

They shared a moment. Two sets of eyes, two lives, two histories. Shared over the years. But now so far apart. He thought of Jor-El, and Dru-Zod. Jor-El was Krypton's chief science officer, Zod it's chief military commander. The only thing they agreed on was that their world was doomed.

Jor-El and Zod. Doomed together. Alone together.

Father.

Is that—

Is that me. Is that us.

Luthor leaned forward and set his gaze upon the Man of Steel.

"Is that it?"

"Resign."

Luthor rolled his eyes.

"I can make it happen."

"You can't. And you won't."

"Try me."

"I've been trying your patience for fifteen years. If you could have, you would have. On the _Sea Queen_ , no less. I saw it in your eyes then. I see it now."

Superman waited. He folded his arms over his chest. "You think you know me so well."

"Fifteen years," Luthor said. "I've earned it."

"Tell me you earned this office, then."

Luthor smiled. "The system is corrupt."

"You are the system."

Luthor thought about it and nodded.

Then he said: "You have played the game for years, Kent, as much as I have. Been party to it. And benefitted by it. And you loved it. If it meant acceptance for an awkward farm boy who grew up different. If it meant fighting injustice. Fighting me. We've created a mythography, you and I, but the party's over. We've become too big. So I will not be part of this anymore. Tired of trying to fight you. Tired of pointless contests with people that are beneath me. It's gone on far too long, and I am tired of giving you the pleasure."

Superman looked at him.

"I resign," Luthor said.

* * *

 _ **Concluded…**_


	20. Futures

"It's Superman!" by Lois Lane

 _ _The Daily Planet__ , October 24 1986:

"…Let's start with vital statistics. He's single. No children. He says he's over twenty-one, that he doesn't drink when he flies—I get the sense he doesn't drink at all. Weighs two to two-twenty five. From the look of him he's all muscle. I ask him to test his powers. He says he can see through anything. I ask him to test that, too. He says he's impervious to pain—nothing's hurt him so far. But I suspect something has. I see it in his eyes. I ask him why he's here.

"He says he's here to fight for truth and justice and the American way. I tell him he's gonna end up fighting every elected official in the country. But there's a heart to him. I am not sure I can put it into words. But he seems to want to help people, as if doing good work is its own reward. Paging Immanuel Kant. Already, of course, by the time this article is published you will have seen a host of talking heads discussing this strange visitor and wondering what his true intentions are. Hence this interview. Certainly there is curiosity, alongside fear, about what Superman is and what his mission is. And as I have a conversation with him, his declamation of truth, justice and the American way stays with me.

"As he answers my anodyne questions I come to suspect that certain television personalities who shall remain nameless but under WGBS' employment have sorely misjudged him. Perhaps he is just one person trying to do his best in this appalling world. Perhaps he is just trying to help people. It would all seem a bromide to some other person, but in this man, I think not. I think he's here to help us. No less than my old mentor Ed Wilson once told me Metropolis is the very best and very worst of humanity. Based on my brief interactions with him this evening, I think Superman is the former. Which leads me to wonder: who or what is the very worst?"

* * *

Earlier in the evening, Lex Luthor resigned the office of President of the United States. While the Man of Steel discreetly left the White House after their conversation, Luthor went down to the South Lawn. There he spoke to the gathered press pool. Pre-eminent among them was Lois Lane with a WGBS microphone in hand. They seemed to share a look in the infinite moment before he spoke.

Like always.

For a moment she thought maybe he'd do the right thing.

But—

No.

"Tonight," he said into Lois' microphone and as he spoke the press pool stirred into private conversations, cellular telephone calls to sources and colleagues, keeping one eye on their phone and another on Luthor. "Superman and I were able to have a conversation in mutual respect over the state of our nation. Together with the Vice President, the Joint Chiefs, and the Attorney General, we were able to devise a solution which I feel will be beneficial to all parties and at least begin the process of healing at this charged time. Tonight we watched with horror as riots broke out in some of our greatest cities. I have spoken previously of this American carnage and tonight I renew my call for it to stop. We must prove ourselves a peaceable people, especially during these dark times of international stress and domestic strife. We must seek to be better in word and deed. However, it has become clear to me in the course of my conversation with Superman and the Joint Chiefs that I no longer possess the necessary coalition to effect change on the level I desire. With that being said, I want to inform you all here and the American People watching that as of ten-forty-five this evening I have resigned the office of President of the United States. At that time, in the Oval Office, Pete Ross was sworn in. It is my sincere hope that we give Mister Ross the chance and the choice to lead. He is our president now, and let me be the first to offer him my fondest wishes for the job he now must perform. Tonight, I will return to Metropolis, and to private life. Thank you all."

Then he turned and left. While the press pool erupted and started shouting questions—

He kept walking.

It was a fairly benign statement from Luthor. It belied nothing and indicated nothing. It was a lie, she knew damn well. Meant to distract from her publishing of the file cabinet: every investigative work she ever wrote on him, cross-referenced and collaborated. All of it was out there now and Luthor could not control it any longer. Time was she would stick her hand in the air and needle him with questions. But this time she didn't say a word. She lowered the mic and watched him walk back up to the White House, a solitary figure in the night.

She felt Clark behind her. She turned, her gaze still on Luthor shrinking into the distance, into the blackness. She said, "Congratulations?"

"I don't know," he said. "All his old resources back at his fingertips. I'm not sure what to expect."

She looked at him and smiled, sly and cool. "I'm sure I can think of something."

One corner of his mouth curled up. "Now now."

The curl turned into a full grin.

He said, "Let's go home."

And they did. They found a quiet little hiding place down the road on K Street. He gathered her up and she said, "Like our honeymoon," and kissed him. He smiled again, and off they went.

In the distance he saw Wonder Woman and Batman boarding her jet, temporarily visible, with John Corben bound within the Lasso of Truth. For his benefit. They had things taken care of.

He looked in the distance towards Metropolis. The riots were done. Turpin and Sawyer had done good work ending them. There were volunteers cleaning up Centennial Park. Stryker's was back under control.

He rotated in mid-air to look west.

Keystone was quiet now too.

Gotham.

Starling.

They were quiet. Okay, even if only for the moment.

For the moment, he could take it.

* * *

They returned home. Except there was no home to return to. Not exactly.

1938 Sullivan Street was a crime scene. Far up on their floor, their apartment was a bombed-out ruin.

He saw it from the air. The vast plume of smoke curling up and away from midtown. Into the night sky. He had smelled the smoke from Washington.

They landed on the street. Him and Lois. He looked up at the burning hole in the building.

He looked at her.

She nodded. Smiled that sly smile of hers. The one that clutched his heart and made him fall in love with her all over again. Every time. He touched her face.

Then he lifted into the sky. In another moment he landed on the burning remnants of his balcony.

He went for Winslow's remains first. He recognised the bones. From long ago. And now they were nothing at all. A black pile. A used-to-be of a person. He took his cape off, knelt by the pile, and covered it gingerly. Bowed his head and was silent for a long moment.

He remembers. Long ago.

Winslow Schott is the Toyman. One of Clark's more persistent and unstable foes. It is Winslow Schott who years before this moment and in the throes of a psychotic break kidnaps Cat Grant's son Adam, abuses him, then kills him. The crime has shaken the city—and Superman. When the MCU, Sawyer and the supremely irate Turpin, find Schott's hiding place, Superman asks to take the lead. Turpin is Turpin about it. But Sawyer at least seems to understand. Superman says only one word to her: Mercy. She calms herself and just says "Okay." Superman walks right in. What a stereotype of a hideout, like the Scooby-Doos Clark used to sneak around at night and watch because Pa hated them. An abandoned factory on the outskirts of Metropolis. Superman just walks upstairs. It's better if there are no powers. It seems calmer that way. Especially with this broken man he is about to bring in. He walks up, five floors on decaying stairs, and there is Winslow, hunched over a stripped-down Teddy Ruxspin. He is soldering the tape deck. Superman slows down. The floorboards creak underneath him. Winslow stops working. He looks up and turns around.

"Oh."

Superman says, "I just want to talk."

Winslow hunches and frowns. His glasses slide down his nose and his jowls quake. When he speaks it is quiet and broken: "I didn't mean to hurt him."

"But you did. I can't let that go."

He watches Winslow grab a screwdriver. Watches his hand tense around it. Superman frowns. In another moment, Winslow relaxes his grip. He sighs. "Okay." He feels Superman's hand on his shoulder, and Superman in turn feels Winslow's shoulder, his decades of stress and worry, this broken body and this broken man who needs help he can't get and probably never will.

It is the first time Clark thinks of his father. Not Jonathan Kent. No, this felt something a good deal worse. A good deal more troubling, which no reassurance from Pa could sate. He thinks instead of the father he never knew. The scientist, elevated above such concerns. Ah, but was Jor-El? Was he so divorced from the cold, complacent lot Krypton had become in the centuries before its death? Clark wonders all these things in the fevered dream, in the immeasurable instant of time that comes and goes between when he pats Winslow on the shoulder and then begins speaking.

Father.

What am I?

He speaks.

"Winslow. There are policemen downstairs. They want to arrest you, and I can't stop that. You're going to stand trial from there and then prison. But there are some recovery programs at Stryker's. I can put in a good word for you, and this doesn't have to get worse than it already is. Can you do that for me?"

Slowly, the man nods, this man, this Toyman. Superman helps him up and together they go downstairs.

And now.

Winslow had been in solitary in Stryker's ever since. Even there, even with Metropolis' famous prison clemency programs, a child-killer would not last in general population. So, sadly, solitary it was. And so many years removed from that day, all Superman could do was remember in pain, in humility, in reverence. In grief. And in abiding curiosity. Who freed Winslow to do this tonight?

The answer was clear.

The same sick man who gave him materials to burn Clark Kent's apartment as a message.

He started looking around. Whatever Winslow used, it did the job and more.

But.

Lex must have known they weren't home.

Because the explosion wouldn't have killed him.

And because Lex wouldn't kill Lois.

Even after all this, he still carried a certain torch.

He looked ahead. The door was like everything else. Blackened, burning. Burning. The word of the day. Tiny fragile flames danced at the edges of carbonized wood and drywall. A group of firefighters were coming down the hall at him.

"Gentlemen," he said.

"Sir," the chief said and tipped his hat. He waved to his group and together they began to survey the room. None of them said a word. They seemed to know. Like muscle memory. The chief said: "Looks like it just burned everything to shit."

Superman said nothing. But he walked around his living room surveying the carnage. Was carnage even the word? Plenty of war zones around the world, around the universe. Certainly worse off than his little apartment here. Lots of places in worse need than him.

But this.

This was home.

Perhaps prophetically, there remained there on the floor, by the sagging remains of the davenport, a photograph in a mother of pearl frame, blackened only slightly at the corners. It was Lois and Clark on their wedding day. He picked it up and regarded it for a long moment.

In the vast expanse between high school and college, Clark had travelled the world. He hooked up with a Peace Corps team in Europe, later in subsaharan Africa, and saw firsthand the horror. The way the world was—the way he wished it was not. He met Ed Wilson and travelled Hemingway's path back across Europe. He ended up in a national park and fired because of his powers. Fired because Ed wanted to push him out into the world. Cushions like superpowers—walls you build for yourself—are fine on their own. They keep you safe. But they must be torn down. It's the only way you grow.

He thought of Ed. Time for you to fly.

"Sir." The voice of the fire chief behind him.

Superman turned. "I can take care of this," he said. "Mister Kent is a personal friend."

The fire crew all looked among each other and then back at Superman. The chief said, "Sir, we know it's you. Whole department does."

He was silent. A fraction of a second later he looked away.

All the years of his life and his adventures have all come down to this. To be known.

He thought of it a year ago. After Lex won. No more secrets.

"I'm sorry."

"Mister Kent," the chief said. "You've done more for us than we can remember. It'd be our honor."

Superman looked at the chief. "There's a whole city out there, chief. People who need you more than I do. Help them."

The crew looked among themselves again. Slowly they nodded. Superman gestured toward the door. Through the blasted threshold he saw Lois coming down the hall. As they passed Lois in the hallway she sidestepped and they nodded to her and she smiled and nodded back. She watched them go, then looked at him.

He cut quite a figure there in the scorched doorway. The stolid power, the broadness of him against the distorted, blackened setting. Closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment.

He felt her at his side. Her hand on his shoulder. He stood and they shared a look.

What to say. What not to say.

She reached in and kissed him. Slid one hand up the back of his neck, through the waves of his hair. He wrapped his hands around her waist. It was, in the grand scheme of things and on the scale of kisses, one of the finest moments of his life.

What a life. What things I've seen. What things I've done.

Father.

I've been honored to be here. To be among these people. At their very best. At their very worst.

I was meant to inspire good. To champion the oppressed, fight the corrupt, and encourage humankind towards the better angels of its nature.

I don't think I shall ever succeed. Not fully.

I suppose I'll have to keep trying.

Here, in this city. On this planet. In the universe.

We'll rebuild. Lois and I will.

And one day—

He pulled away from Lois. Breathed. Smiled.

"I love you," he said.

He thought of something else. Something in that article she wrote about him. So many years ago. When he explain why he was here. What his mission was.

What was it she called it.

Oh.

He smiled again.

A never-ending battle.

* * *

Three days into his term, Pete Ross was in crisis. He lazed in the davenport, the hideous green midcentury atrocity Luthor had brought in, with his head in his hands. He felt his nose running. His head hurt. Every inch of him hurt. He was doing his level best to focus on the floor, on something still and calming. The pattern of the rug there, a series of chevrons in alternating purple hues.

"Mister President?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Pete?"

He looked up.

"Please don't call me that."

"It's your title now," the doctor said.

Pete was starting to cry. He sniffed. "No."

"You were given it."

"I never wanted it."

"But you did. Otherwise would you have said yes to him all those months ago?"

Pete leaned back. Rested his head on the back of the davenport.

"I have to live with this," he said. "For the rest of my life."

"It's alright, Mister President. Let it all out."

"I can't!" He yelled, his eyes teary and bloodshot. "I have a country to run," he said and slunk back in the seat.

"You could return to private life. You haven't named a Vice President yet. Theoretically, the office would pass to the Speaker of the House."

Pete glared. "Horne is unbalanced. No."

"But this is unhealthy."

Pete sniffled. Scratched his neck. He looked at his hand and thought he saw something crawling on it. He jolted in place, a momentary panic, and rolled his eyes.

"I know," he said. "I know."

"My advice as your therapist is to resign."

Pete looked at him. He spoke plain and bitter, a tinge of self mockery to him: "I hear things. You know. Rumbles at the DNC. People trying to fill a void now that Lex is gone."

"Oh?"

"You know," Pete said. "Who to run in oh-four. There's a couple I could see doing it. And winning."

"Resigning...would remove you from having a say in those conversations. Would it not."

Pete shook his head. Yawned and rubbed his face. Stretched and looked away. His face was vacant and broken. He said, "I don't know anymore."

"Save yourself. The nation will understand. And endure."

Pete breathed.

He looked away. Out the window.

"Of course," he said. "You're right. You're always right."

"Now now."

"I mean it," Pete said. "One thing Lex did right was recommending you. I'm very grateful, Doctor Crane."

Jonathan Crane pushed his glasses up on his nose and forced a smile.

"So am I, Mister President. More than you know."

* * *

Meanwhile…

Wonder Woman returned to Gateway City, and from there her ancestral home of Themyscira, which once again opened itself to her, to fight Circe the Witch in a final battle. But that is a story for another day.

Batman returned to Gotham City, and at the dawn of the year 2002 found himself drawn into a scheme against his life. Schemes upon schemes, really, and the greatest among them involving a childhood friend and the unlikeliest of Gotham's creatures, Edward Nigma. But you know that story.

Robin, Kid Flash, and Superboy: Tim Drake, Bart Allen, and Conner Kent also returned to private life. And they were never to be the same. They went back to superheroics. But they were never the same. They were filled with companionship and love for the rest of their days. Even up to the Infinite Crisis of Man and the Multiverse which cost poor Conner his life. His memory was a blessing, even as poor Cassie mourned him to her own death with Diana on Themyscira years later. Meanwhile, the boys carried their light in their hearts. They were the lucky ones. When you got right down to it. Because as long as there's life there's hope.

Dinah Lance, together with Oliver's son Connor Hawke, rebuilt Starling City. They subdued the riots and the protestors. And in the wake of Roy Harper and Oliver Queens' deaths they became the city's greatest protectors. The super-criminals moved off. Perhaps in respect to Oliver, but perhaps also in shock. By the year 2005 Dinah and Connor were able to retire. Super-crime never again threatened Starling.

The Justice League of America met one last time on New Year's Eve 2001. Clark, J'onn, Diana, Arthur, Wally, Kyle, and Bruce were there. They were there to take a vote. A decision borne out of other, older choices they had made. And choices they hadn't.

The Martian Manhunter stood up first and explained it. His first role, even on Mars and even once he arrived on Earth, was a policeman. It was so long ago, and so much had happened in his life since then, but he still tried to conduct himself along the line. He made a case:

"I undertook a mission of my own accord to infiltrate Luthor's campaign and, once he was elected, I remained. I thought I could uncover some evidence of wrongdoing. I was so certain they could not discover me. But I did not count on his ingenuity. The most dangerous weapon in the universe, after all, is the human brain, and I failed to account for Lex Luthor's. At the same time, as has been made clear in Lois Lane's published work, he was able to conspire with foreign powers to influence policy in a way favorable to all parties—to rewrite the balance of power in the Middle East, playing a part in the Bialyan genocide, the disappearance of Queen Beatriz, and the murders of Oliver Queen and Roy Harper. The uncomfortable truth is that we allowed it.

"We were too blind with morality and philosophy, with the question of using our positions to validate the affairs of humanity, that we failed his test. To be certain, he indeed committed crimes for which he has pled out and for which he will pay a very small penalty. He has sworn to never again seek public office or use his knowledge in service against the Republic. My contacts in the Secret Service indicate he is to be impeached in absentia, as a token measure. But this is not enough. It is not enough that he alone pay for his misdeeds. We are responsible too. We stood by too long, then chose to intervene too late, and the world reacted poorly. We cannot save the world if the world does not trust us.

"Our cities were subjected to riots because of polemic Luthor tacitly allowed. People have died. We ourselves have been split on this issue. He has done this to us."

"Now he is no longer under such scrutiny. The longer I contemplate the possibility now in his hands, I fear not for myself or for any of you, but for the planet he still could threaten, and the innocents in his way. I feel no longer secure in guaranteeing the safety of this world in a group setting, when our separate individual approaches could yield more beneficial results. I therefore call for a vote. On the immediate disbanding of the Justice League."

A silent moment came and went.

Someone said, "It would have to be unanimous."

So this, then, is the true end of the Age of Superheroes. It does not end in fire, or in ice as they say. As the mythology and the pundits would tell you. There is no grand fight to the finish. There isn't a thrilling end, not even a climax really, in the most classic sense of the word. It's the opposite in fact. The Age of Superheroes—

All those generations of struggle—

And what did they ever achieve really?—

It was never intended to be the twilight of the gods. Or a grand fable for the ages. And now, without them, humanity was going to have to find it's own way.

It all started out with a man, an alien that looked like a man, just trying to help people. The last survivor of a dead world, the Last Son of Krypton, who came to Earth and touched lives. He saved people. Fought others. Gave us gifts, the greatest of which was his unfailing courage. And it was with that unfailing courage—and in memory of the many lives he had failed to save—that the Man of Steel stood. Looked among his friends, his colleagues.

Superman said, "Aye."

Wonder Woman looked away and said, "Aye."

Kyle looked at her.

Wally was leaning against a wall, arms across his chest, tapping his leg but it was a one red blur.

Kyle said, "Aye," and it was quiet and uncertain.

Wally looked at J'onn. He said. "This is horseshit and you know it."

"Wally—"

"Barry," he said and pointed a finger hard on the table, "Would have stuck it through to the end. He did, as a matter of fact. Your memories are fading."

"Lex outmaneuvered us at every turn," Clark said. "And only resigned so he could save himself."

"This is wrong action," Wally said. "We can't give up now."

"Escalation," Arthur said. "Is the only language he and all the rest respond to. Leaving—is the only way to show them we understand." He shot a withering look at Wally. "Humankind doesn't need us anymore. If they ever did."

Kyle shook his head. The conversation seemed familiar.

Wally scowled and pointed at Arthur. "You're losing yourself."

Bruce was standing in the back of the Dome, next to Arthur. They shared a look. Bruce said, "We're arguing in circles."

"I'm not," Arthur said. He looked at J'onn. "We are all on different paths. We have been for some time now. I vote yes."

"You're throwing this away," Wally said. "For nothing."

"Nothing?" Arthur said and glowered. "My home—my people—are nothing to you?"

"We agreed on common defense!" Wally said. Screamed it. He was shaking. It got worse when he looked around the room. By the looks on all their faces, they'd already decided.

He thought of Barry again.

All the dreams. Everything we built.

Ashes. Ashes and memories, and even those will be gone too.

One day.

"Our jobs," Bruce said from the back. "Are unchanged. There are still people who need us. We can devote ourselves to that full-time. I vote yes, J'onn."

Wally rubbed his neck. Looked at J'onn. "I suppose you're a yes, too?"

J'onn nodded. "I'll remain here for a while longer. But eventually, yes. I'll find a new home. Reintegrate on the surface."

Wally sighed. "We can't give in."

"Um," Kyle said. "We're not?"

Wally glared at him.

"We lost this one," Kyle said. "We have to find another way. And…you know, I've been off-planet. I miss New York. I miss my home, man."

Wally looked away. Finally he said, "I understand."

"It's official then," the Manhunter said. "May we meet again one day. If the world so requires it."

But the world—

Didn't.

Kyle Rayner went home like he said. He was living in New York and getting close with Jenni Hayden, Alan Scott's daughter and a bearer of the Light in her own way. Things were happening and they were happening fast. Then, one black day in 2002, his art assistant was assaulted and hospitalized, and the act drove Kyle to despair. Eventually he left the planet for good. And with Hal Jordan long gone, with John Stewart unable to carry the Light alone, with no major planetary threats to speak of, eventually it came to pass that the Green Lanterns forsook Sector 2814.

Wally returned to Keystone and continued as the Flash. By the middle of 2002 he experienced personal tragedy as well, as his old colleague became a hideous simulacrum of Barry's greatest enemy and threatened Linda's life. Yet through trial and torment, Wally persevered with a strength that surprised even himself. By 2005 and much like Dinah Lance in Starling, it had all quieted down. He decided to take Linda and his twins into the future, where Jay Garrick already lived with Joan. Bart Allen, the Kid Flash remained, and by 2007 was cohabitating in Gotham with Tim Drake as they faced the last of the Batman's enemies.

By the middle of 2003, Amanda Waller had successfully separated the DEO from the clutches of the US government and re-established it in Switzerland as Checkmate: super-human oversight, advice, and advancement. She took with her Cameron Chase, plus Bruce Wayne's sometime-bodyguard Sasha Bordeaux. At the dissolution of the Justice Society of America in 2005, Micheal Holt, Mister Terrific as he was in the JSA, and Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern, joined her. Together they swore to defend the planet from as many threats as possible, internal and external. They fought on the front lines in the Infinite Crisis, and the Final Crisis of Man and the Multiverse, both of which occurred far above the perceptions of most humans, super or otherwise. By 2009 they transformed into a Global Peace Agency. Mankind changed only slightly. But it didn't make their jobs any easier.

By the middle of 2002, with Luthor reduced in power, Clark felt he was finally able to relax. Life with Lois was going well. By 2012, the super villain crowd—Corben, Jensen, and any that were still alive—had been secured in Stryker's so long that escape was no longer on anyone's minds. It was then that Brainiac came. But that, too, is a story for another time.

In the end, the Justice League had failed to solve the problems of its age. However, individuals succeeded where the League and its structures could not. In the end, Leviathan failed.

* * *

But by the spring of 2004, Lois Lane wasn't satisfied.

She went down to LexCorp—

Strolled right in like she always did.

She waited for a moment at the elevator bank and looked to one side. The rail system he was building all those years ago was finally done: LexCorp up to Suicide Slum. The exact opposite of his trajectory in life. She made a face.

Finally the lift came. Up she went.

Teschmacher was still there, watching her screens. Watching anyone that might bother to come visit.

Lois walked through. Pushed one glass door open and there he was. Hunched over his desk, typing away on his PowerBook. He looked up. Brilliant green eyes staring at her.

She wasn't impressed.

"What is it," he said.

"I need to talk to you."

He closed the PowerBook and clasped his fingers together. She sat.

"Come to gloat, have you?"

"No," she said. "I have questions."

"What are they?"

"Last year, you flew into a private airfield in Ohio and visited a high school. I have the inbound flight records and a school choir program that thanks you for funding. Other than that, nothing. I have video footage from here from six months ago: you talking to the principal at Whitehorse High School. Then there's a series of phone calls to a private number in Starling. I'm still working on transcripts. So what the hell are you up to? I was under the impression your plea deal included no bullshit."

Luthor waited. Finally he said:

"I wanted a futures program. Recruits. In addition to the metahuman research, I spent years watching a group of students from different places. All over the country. Outstanding students, or sometimes disadvantaged. All except for two. Young people who see the world the same way. They see things. And they understand. So I take ordinary people and I turn them into weapons. Propagandists against Superman. I can't defeat him in a suit of armor, playing King of the Mountain on Fifth Avenue, and I will not sully this body by giving it superpowers. I don't even give them powers. It would be too easy. No. I give them permission —more alluring and forbidden than laser vision, you know, is the right to judge, or enslave. Darkseid understands this. The most dangerous weapon in the universe is the human brain and that's what I wanted from them. A human defense corps. Instead of some alien doing the job for us."

"The program is shut down?"

Luthor nodded. "They didn't have the heart."

"Good."

He looked at her. His face turned into an exhausted sneer. "Is that all, Miss Lane?"

Silence.

His eyes stayed on her.

She breathed.

He said, "What?"

She made a face.

"You thought you had me. Didn't you, Lois."

"With the file cabinet?"

"Yes."

She looked at him. "Possibly."

"It was your final trump card, was it not? The result of a long career of investigative reporting, all your hard work, all those Pulitzers. You could have done anything. But you wanted me in prison. Paying for my crimes forever. Didn't you."

She didn't look at him. She just said, "Yes."

He leaned back in his chair and breathed.

"And it didn't work."

"Because if it did," she said. "You wouldn't be here."

"Perhaps this is a mercy," he said. "Perhaps we both misjudged the will of the people. You publish a litany of every crime of mine and you thought it would work. That it would shock the public, shock the authorities, into action. But. No one cared."

"Yeah," she said. Finally looked at him. "We're both devastated. Aren't we."

"We are slave to our choices," he said. "I suppose we have to live with them now."

"I hate you, Lex Luthor."

It came out of nowhere. Well. Almost nowhere. And he smiled upon that realization. She had always felt that way. And now she was using her pulpit against him. Had used. Would always use. Because all of time happens at once, that much he knew. Slavery was accurate. Chained to their natures, not destiny, the invention of fools, but preordained. More: this was always going to happen. She would always oppose him. He would always circumvent her, and the fetters of the law. And of course he and Superman would always fall in opposition.

After all. He knew there were other worlds. Out there in the multitude.

And he knew that no matter what universe they called home, Supermen and Luthors would never peacefully coexist.

Never.

"So this is where we are," he said. "You and I."

"Deadlocked," she said. "As far as I can tell. You've successfully skated on everything. It's the Sea Queen all over again."

"No."

"No?"

"No," he lied. "For the first time in years, Lois, I have no idea what I'll do next. The thought of that disturbs me. Deeply."

She leaned forward.

"Me too."

"So we enter our sunset years as enemies?"

"I don't see any other choice."

She said it with such sadness. She was looking at him and summoning strength. But it felt different. This time. Before there was no small courage, no small fire in her step. The righteousness. He loved it. And he always will.

She stood. She got halfway into "Goodbye," before he interrupted:

"Tell your husband," he said and waited. He was frowning and looking at his desk. That, too, disturbed her.

She waited. Frozen in place. In time.

"Tell him I'm sorry."

She caught her breath.

"I will."

She turned and went for the doors. She didn't stop. Pushed the doors open. Passed Teschmacher.

In the elevator.

In the instant before it closed.

She looked. He was in the doorway.

Their eyes locked.

The doors shut. And she was gone.

He turned back. Went to the window and leaned against it, one arm propped at a sharp angle and supporting himself.

Looking at the city.

He took his cellular phone out of his pocket and dialed.

Ring.

Ring.

Finally, the voice of a boy. No. A young man. Confident, intelligent, of similar mind. And destined for better things.

"Hi, sorry. Had to get a bathroom pass. This place is like a prison. Can't wait to get out, you know what I mean?"

"I do. Graduation in a few weeks?"

"Yeah I'm excited. Do you think you'll be able to make it out for the ceremony?"

"I think I can clear the schedule, yes."

"I want you to know I appreciate everything you've done for me, Mister Luthor."

"Not at all. My little program has always been near to my heart. One day all of this will end, and I hope you'll be there to see the world that's coming."

"If you say so. So what should I do now?"

"Go. Enjoy the rest of High School."

"And, uh, the scholarship?"

"Still in effect, you needn't worry."

"Thanks, Mister Luthor. If I didn't have you, I don't mind telling you, I'm not sure what I'd do."

"It's been my pleasure seeing you grow into a fine young man, Jesse. I have every confidence that you'll grow further at the University. Who knows—maybe one day you'll find your way back to us."

"I'd like that."

"I as well. Goodbye, Jesse."

It wasn't an ending. The true end, he well knew, was yet to come. True enough to what he told Lois, he had to come to terms with that. And yet.

He had never really come to terms with anything. Not his parents. Not Fatty Arbuckle, the first life he ever took and certainly not the last. Not the _Sea Queen_. Certainly not Superman.

So.

In the immeasurable moment after he hung up with Jesse.

He had a thought. A brainwave coming in, and he intended to surf.

He retreated into his tower.

Outside, the world kept going.

And a week later, he was walking by the Observation Deck.

When he saw him. A young man. Leaning against the glass wall and muttering to himself. He knew this one: one of the first lives he cared to study in his little program. He knew his grandfather. A LexCorp janitor from long ago. Ten years if a day.

The boy was leaning against the glass and staring at the city. Muttering to himself.

Luthor listened hard.

"…Only been here three hours and I'm miserable."

Luthor spoke: "Try Lombardi's on Gordon Avenue. I hear the New York strip is good."

The boy turned. Looked at him, then realized who he was looking at.

"You're Lex Luthor."

His eyes grew wide. Not just surprise but curiosity—the name, the concept, the most abject form—overtook the boy.

This one was thinking, analyzing, studying.

Luthor said, "Yes."

The boy stammered, but recovered nicely: "Mister Luthor, my name is Allen O'Neill. Um. I'm not with a school group or anything. I'm visiting the city. I live over in Whitehorse. Uh. Early graduation present."

Luthor suppressed a smile.

Lois.

You missed it, you narrow-minded nobody.

My visit to Whitehorse. A fake presidential bid. Reordering the world.

All of that.

For this.

A future.

"Allen," Luthor said. "Let's talk."

* * *

 **The End.**

May 2017-June 2019.

The following stories contributed to the telling of this one:

 _Television_ : Doctor Who—The Girl Who Died/World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls. Justice League/Justice League Unlimited. Superman The Animated Series. Batman the Animated Series. Young Justice. Arrow. The Flash. Legends of Tomorrow. House of Cards. Twin Peaks. Star Wars Rebels.

 _Film_ : Man of Steel. Superman 1978. Batman 1989. Batman Forever. Batman vs Superman: Dawn of Justice. Captain Marvel. Avengers: Endgame. Wonder Woman. Aquaman. The Dark Knight Rises. Mulholland Drive. Lost Highway. Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith/The Last Jedi. The Departed.

 _Novels_ : _It's Superman_! by Tom DeHaven. _Batman: No Man's Land_ by Greg Rucka.

 _Comics_ : Doomsday Clock. Watchmen. V For Vendetta. Miracleman. DC: The New Frontier. Jack Kirby—Fourth World/OMAC/Challengers of the Unknown/The Demon/Kamandi: The Last Boy On Earth. JLA by Grant Morrison. JLA by Mark Waid. Crisis on Infinite Earths. Final Crisis. Infinite Crisis. Aquaman by Geoff Johns. Aquaman: Death of a Prince. Hawkworld. Green Arrow: The Longbow Hunters. Green Arrow by Kevin Smith. Final Night. Green Lantern: Kyle Rayner vols 1 and 2 by Ron Marz et al. The Flash by Mark Waid. The Flash by Geoff Johns. JSA by Geoff Johns and David S Goyer. JSA: The Golden Age. Batman: A Lonely Place of Dying. Robin: Reborn. Batman: Knightfall/Contagion/Legacy/Cataclysm/No Man's Land. Batman: Murderer/Fugitive. Batman: Hush. Superman/Batman: Public Enemies. Superman #175/'Doomsday Rex'. Superman #181/#182. Action Comics #700. Action Comics #800. Action Comics #900. Action Comics #1000. Superman Up Up and Away! President Luthor. Man of Steel by John Byrne. They Saved Luthor's Brain! The Death of Superman. Reign of the Supermen. Superman: Under a Yellow Sun. Lex Luthor: the Unauthorised Biography. Superman: The Wedding Album. Superman: Panic In the Sky. Superman: Red Son. Superman: American Alien. Teen Titans by Geoff Johns. Young Justice by Peter David. Wonder Woman by George Perez vols 1-3. Wonder Woman by Greg Rucka vol 1. Wonder Woman by John Byrne vols 1-2.

 _Video Games_ : Batman: Arkham Asylum/Arkham City/Arkham Origins/Arkham Knight. Superman 64 (yes, really).

And with my eternal gratitude for the work of Jack Kirby.

Long live the King.


End file.
